


When He Awoke...

by CorvetteClaire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco trying to find himself, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Harry trying to get into Draco's pants, Imprinting, Lucius Trying to be a good father, M/M, Magical Inheritance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 11:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16304117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvetteClaire/pseuds/CorvetteClaire
Summary: Strange things are happening to Draco Malfoy. He keeps waking up... changed. His father offers one explanation, but Harry may have the ultimate answer.A silly take on the question of magical inheritance and sexual identity.





	When He Awoke...

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic as a break from the very dark, multi-part story I'm working on, and it kind of got away from me. It is meant purely for fun, with plenty of gratuitous smut. It is not a serious exploration of gender identity, consent, sub/dom relationships or anything else, so please don't tell me how many ways I got it wrong! It really is just meant to be some silly, smutty, fluffy Harry/Draco fun (with a few other people thrown into the mix to liven it up).
> 
> Oh, and Pansy's come-f**k-me shoes. Mustn't forget the shoes! But you have to read through to the last scene to get those.

It was a beautiful Autumn day. Perfect flying weather. The sky was full of figures on broomsticks, the stands full of cheering, screaming fans, and Draco was flying perfectly, his Nimbus 2001 warm and lithe and responsive between his hands. No one could catch him. No Snitch could escape him. He felt light and free, as if he were part of the sky. Then, without warning, magic brushed his skin.

It felt like fingers down the spine or a cold breeze against naked, sweat-dampened flesh. He started and looked around for the source, seeing nothing but a swarm of flyers in Slytherin green and Ravenclaw blue intent on the match. No one was paying any attention to him, but the feeling did not pass. He still had the sensation that someone was watching him—really _watching him_. It wasn’t frightening or painful, but he found it unsettling.

The Ravenclaw Seeker sped past him in a blur of blue robes and black hair. Cho Chang showing off her flying skills. And she did have some wicked skills, for all she was only a Ravenclaw and doomed to failure on this day that belonged to the Slytherins, _belonged_ to Draco Malfoy.

He mentally brushed off all awareness of the strange magic and dived after her, grinning as the wind tore at his robes and made his eyes water. His mind was back in the match where it belonged. The sky was his. Victory was in his grasp.

Not until he soared up over the mass of players, the Golden Snitch clutched in his hand, did he remember the touch of strange magic. It had passed, but the memory of it still lived in his skin, making it tingle and spark with something he could only call pleasure. He looked around again, this time at the stands that ringed the pitch, wondering who had sent it. Because he didn’t doubt for a moment that it was someone close by, someone powerful, someone… he sought for the right word and could only come up with _important._

The Slytherin team closed on him, cheering and shouting, slapping him on the back and nearly knocking from his broom in their glee. It had been an easy victory. Decisive, even, with a large enough point spread to put them far in the lead for the Cup. Of course, this was Slytherin’s first match of the season, but they’d outstripped Gryffindor’s win over Hufflepuff by more than a hundred points.

Draco smiled to himself as he dismounted his broom and carried the now-passive Snitch to Madam Hooch. He’d out-performed Harry Potter. Not beaten him, of course. No one did that. But maybe put the Chosen Nose a little out of joint.

He reached the locker room well ahead of the others, stripped off his Quidditch robes, and stepped into the shower. The hot water caressed his skin, making it tingle like the strange magic had—or maybe it was the magic still clinging to him. He ran his hands through his hair, wetting it, and felt a sudden lump of heat form low in his belly.

It felt good—the hot water, the sparks on his skin, the hands in his hair—and he slowed his movements, savoring it. How had he never noticed how much he liked the feel of hands in his hair before? Why had he never stopped to _enjoy_ it?

He crooked his fingers, digging them into the short, soft, wet strands, then he dragged them over his scalp.

Merlin, that felt good!

He tugged on a fistful of hair, and a jolt of heat went straight to his groin. Startled by his own reaction, he looked down to see his cock standing out straight from his wet thighs. More sparks skated over his skin at the sight, lifting his cock another impossible inch and drawing a soft groan from Draco’s throat. He thought about taking his cock in his hand, stroking it, pumping it ’til the burgeoning orgasm in his belly exploded, but instead, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back again, into the shower spray.

He didn’t want to end it, he realized. He didn’t want to spoil this lovely, erotic interlude by fisting himself until he spurted a sticky mess all over his hands and thighs. He’d never enjoyed the feel of his own body, his own lust so much, and he wanted to savor it.

He was doing just that—letting the hot water pour over his upturned face, closed eyes, slicked hair and slippery-smooth body—when he heard a deep voice drawling, “Well, well, isn’t that pretty.”

He lowered his head and opened his eyes to see Marcus Flint standing at the entrance to the shower, his eyes drinking in Draco’s naked, aroused body. Flint was a brute and a bully who got his jollies by tormenting the younger Slytherins. Draco generally held him in contempt, except on the Quidditch pitch, where he more than knew his stuff, and today he had led his team to a resounding victory. He had earned a measure of respect. And standing there with the steam of the shower collecting on his bare skin, he looked remarkably fit.

Why had Draco never noticed before? Was this something like hands in his hair and water on his skin that had always been there, waiting for him to look and to want? Or was he simply losing his mind?

Flint stepped into the tiled space and up close to Draco in two strides. He was over six feet of solid muscle, with thick, dark hair on his chest that trailed down his flat stomach to his groin, where his cock jutted hungrily out of the matted curls. Draco gazed down at that thick, short, lovely thing, then let his eyes skim up to Flint’s face, wearing a half smile that said, clear as day, _Yes, of course I want it._

And he did. He wanted it more than he could ever remember wanting anything in his life, which, if he were in his right mind instead of dazed by lust, would have baffled him. But he was dazed by lust, his senses overloaded by rogue magic and caressing water and fingers combing his hair, so he wanted Marcus Flint’s cock more than he wanted to breathe.

“You’d be even prettier on your knees, with this in your mouth,” Flint said, grasping the base of his cock and giving it a shake.

Draco just smiled again and let his legs fold, carrying him down to kneel on the tile. The last thing he said before he swallowed Flint’s prick was, “Put your hands in my hair.”

 

Back in the Slytherin dormitory, Draco swapped his Quidditch gear for his most casual clothes and settled in for the rest of the afternoon to do his homework. He felt calm, satisfied—with his victory on the pitch and his fun in the shower—with no regrets. In fact, his body felt relaxed and content in a way he never remembered it being.

Was exchanging blow jobs with Marcus Flint such a transcendent experience that it took him to a higher plane of consciousness? Was this the pinnacle of sexual pleasure? Odd thought, that, but then everything about this afternoon had been odd. Delightful, but odd.

He squirmed in his chair, then stretched luxuriously, like a cat, before curling into the green cushions again. It felt remarkably good—the slight scratchiness of the chair through his clothing, the way his muscles tightened then relaxed, the liquid warmth inside him—almost like it had felt in the shower, when he’d stood under the spray and finger-combed his hair…

His nerve endings sparked lightly and his cock twitched. Draco raised a surprised eyebrow, then broke out in a grin.

No, it wasn’t Flint who’d pushed him to the height of physical pleasure, it was something in his own body. Something that was still there. Something to do with the brush of magic against his skin.

The feeling stayed with him throughout the day, pushing into the front of his mind whenever he experienced some new sensation that started the sparks flying. He was half-hard, a simmering hunger bubbling down in the pit of his belly no matter what he was doing, and he found that he liked it. It warmed him. Put a delicate flush on his pale cheeks. Made him smile and laugh a little more often than usual. And it drew the eyes of his housemates in a way he liked, even though they couldn’t see what was swelling under his robes.

By the time he headed into the dormitory to get ready for bed, he was feeling overstimulated and enervated, in need of cool sheets against his skin and the sweet relief of sleep. He stripped off and crawled into bed between the expensive sheets his mother always provided for him, and as with everything else that day, they felt entirely new. He groaned softly and moved his limbs against them, rubbing himself all over with fine silk, feeling shocks of pleasure shoot through him.

He wanted a man in his bed. He wanted the weight of a body between his thighs, lips bruising his throat, a cock pounding into his arse. He’d never had these things—never had more than a few fevered kisses with Theo Nott in an empty dungeon chamber, or a quick hand job from Miles Bletchley round the back of the broom shed after practice—but he’d never doubted that he wanted them, and tonight, that desire felt much more… real. More solid. As if he could reach right out and touch the man, if he tried hard enough.

But of course, he couldn’t. There was no one in his bed or in his body, and no hands to touch him but his own. That was all right. He wanted sleep more than anything, and he had that warm feeling in his stomach, the remembered brush of magic on his skin for company. So he curled up, one hand cradling his ever-present erection against his belly, and fell asleep to the imagined caress of lips and hands.

 

The next morning when he awoke, his hair was down to his shoulders.

 

*** *** ***

 

Today was the last Hogsmeade visit before the Christmas hols, and Draco hummed happily to himself as he thought of the presents he would buy for his friends and family. It was cold out, snow threatening but never falling, so he absently threw on a few extra layers before swinging his fur-lined cloak about his shoulders. It wasn’t until he reached up to fasten the cloak and got a good look at his own arms that he realized he was wearing one of Millicent Bulstrode’s jumpers instead of his own school robes. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of his torso draped in soft, sky-blue knit, then smirked and headed out of the room.

The older Slytherins were all collected in the common room, gathering their belongings, chattering about the day ahead. Draco joined them and Theo tossed a possessive arm across his shoulders.

“Hey, Draco. Nice jumper.”

Draco arched a brow at him, then grinned at a bemused Millicent. A slight flush stained his cheeks as he realized how odd he must look to his friends. Then he mentally shrugged and said, “Thanks for the loan, Bulstrode.”

“That’s my best jumper. Cashmere and cotton! How’d you get hold of it?”

“Honestly?” Both his brows rose now, his face reddening still more. “I don’t know. It was in my room this morning and I needed something warm.”

Pansy rolled her eyes and smirked. Putting on her most irritatingly coy voice, she simpered, “Ooh, Millie, have you been misbehaving with Draco?”

Millicent flushed and scowled, but Draco rolled his eyes. “No offense, Bulstrode, but you’ve got entirely the wrong equipment.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than Draco wished he could take them back, but for reasons they neither understood nor bothered to examine, not one of the gathered Slytherins took Draco’s remark as an opening to attack. There was something in him that demanded respect, even as it flew in the face of everything they thought they knew about the snobbish Malfoy heir. The ease with which he wore Millicent’s clothes, the grace in his slender but muscular body, the way he tilted his head when he laughed and turned his hand to throw his long hair over his shoulder were so perfectly right that none of his friends stopped to question them.

Still lightly teasing each other, the Slytherins trooped out of the common room and headed up toward the entrance hall. Somehow, even though they all had their own plans for the day, they collected around Draco like so many moths around a flame and followed him down the carriageway toward the village. The group finally began to break up when they reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade. Theo tried to cling to Draco’s side, but Draco turned his quicksilver eyes on the other boy and said, firmly, “I’ll see you later at the Three Broomsticks.”

Pouting but obedient, Theo peeled off with Pansy and Millicent. They were the last to go, leaving Draco alone. He strode off down the high street, looking around him with the sense of hyper-awareness and deep enjoyment that was his new normal.

He shopped with the same unselfconscious pleasure that he did everything these days, combing through shops and chatting up sales clerks, oblivious to the wondering looks he got from people who were used to the haughty, cold, superior Malfoy of recent memory. By the time he’d selected gifts for both his parents and half of his friends, he had a date for Thursday night with a Ravenclaw beauty named Philippe and a promise from two Hufflepuffs to invite him to their House Christmas Party.

He turned his steps toward the Three Broomsticks where the other Slytherins were waiting for him, but the sight of a display window full of handcrafted jewelry drew his attention. It was lovely stuff—silver, gold, platinum, with precious gems used expertly and judiciously to lend it style—just right for Daphne Greengrass, who had flawless taste, and Blaise, who liked to show off his perfect bone structure with a bit of sparkle. Smiling to himself, he pushed open the door.

A witch with a long, flame-red plait hanging over her shoulder greeted him from the behind the counter. She was in her mid-thirties, handsome rather than pretty, with enough jewelry placed carelessly about her person to tell Draco that she was probably the artist responsible for this collection. No one else would wear so many pieces so effortlessly and so effectively. He smiled at her. She visibly melted.

“What can I show you, young man?”

“I’m shopping for presents, so I have no idea.” His smile turned sheepish. “Maybe you can inspire me.”

The witch laughed aloud at that. “I’m sure I can, but I need something to go on. Who are you shopping for?”

He gave her a rough sketch of Daphne and Blaise, their coloring, their tastes, and watched as she waved her wand to bring jewelry floating out of the cases. She spread a rectangle of black velvet on the glass-topped counter and arranged each piece on it. Draco bent over to study them, but his eye was drawn almost immediately to something in the case below.

It was a bangle. A plain circle of bright platinum, polished to perfection, with no gems to mar it. The simple beauty of it fascinated him, bringing his eyes back to it again and again, until he forgot everything else.

Interrupting the witch in mid-sales pitch, he pointed to the bangle and said, “May I see that?”

“Of course.” She drew it out of the case and passed it to Draco. “That wouldn’t suit either of your friends, unless… well…”

He glanced up from the lovely thing in his hand. “Unless what?”

“One of them is more than a friend.”

He looked at more closely, curious, and realized that it had a line of flowing script running around the inside of the circlet. “Looks like Latin.”

“Can you read it?”

Draco shook his head. “My father tried to teach me, but I never got past the Latin names for potions ingredients.”

“It’s from a poem by Ovid. It translates to: ‘Without you I cannot live.’”

His smile widened, lighting up his face in a way he could not see and would not have believed, if he did. “That’s beautiful.”

Turning the bangle in his fingers, he watched the light slide across its smooth surface and felt a pull down in the pit of his stomach that he recognized. His strange, humming magic wanted this. Slipping it easily over his hand, he let it fall about his wrist. His skin warmed in greeting.

“I’ll take it.”

 

The next morning when he awoke, all of his body hair was gone.

 

*** *** ***

 

Philippe was gorgeous. Draco eyed him from beneath the sweep of his lashes and felt a jolt of raw lust go through his body. He almost stumbled, so startled was he by the strength of his need, as he crossed the entry hall to him. The Ravenclaw smiled a welcome, his gaze stroking over Draco like hot fingers, and held out a hand. Draco took it without hesitation.

“Walk with me?” Philippe murmured.

Draco cocked his head to one side, letting his quicksilver eyes meet the brown ones fixed so ardently on him, and nodded. He fell into step beside the older boy, following him out of the castle, into the grounds. It was cold, but Philippe’s warming spell was powerful and Draco’s blood was rapidly heating to the point where he barely needed one. They moved around the bulk of the castle, making for the Quidditch pitch.

When they reached the stands, Philippe led him up into the top tier of benches, where they could see the grass oval spread out beneath them and the golden hoops glimmering in the dusk light at either end. Banners flapped gently in the wind, their colors muted nearly to grey. The first stars showed dimly in the bowl of deep blue above. Draco halted, standing close beside the other boy, and tilted his head back to soak it all in.

How beautiful it was! How marvelous it was to be young and alive and alight with anticipation on such a night!

Philippe squeezed his hand. “All right?”

“Mm.” Draco dropped his eyes from the heavens to the lovely face beside him. He smiled.

Philippe sat down on the bench and tugged on Draco’s hand, pulling him down to sit on his lap. They were virtually the same height, but the Ravenclaw was broader and sturdier, giving the impression of greater size. Not that it would have mattered to Draco if the other boy were six inches shorter than he was. He wanted to sit on his lap and loop an arm around his neck. He wanted to gaze down into his swimming, brown eyes. He wanted to be cradled in his arms and lean into his body.

“Kiss me?” Philippe murmured.

Draco bent his head to comply, his hair falling around their faces.

Their lips met, lingered on each other, parted hesitantly. Draco sighed his pleasure when Philippe’s tongue moved into his mouth. His hand came up to brush the hair back from Draco’s face, then fastened in the silken strands, tightening just enough to hurt. Draco’s sigh turned to a moan. Without breaking the kiss, he twisted around on Philippe’s lap, straddling his thighs, and rocked his hips forward to press his erection against his belly.

The Ravenclaw gasped and pulled back. “Bloody hell, Malfoy! You don’t waste any time, do you?”

“Do you want me to slow down?” Draco asked, seriously.

“Fuck, no!” Philippe growled down low in his throat and grazed his teeth along Draco’s jaw. “I just thought I’d have to work a little harder for it, is all.”

“For what?”

“You naked on my cock.”

Draco smiled, his eyes drooping nearly closed and his head leaning into the fierce grip of Philippe’s hand on his hair. “I’m not naked, yet, so you still have some work to do.”

“Bloody fucking hell…”

His lips moved down Draco’s throat, sucking and nibbling and leaving hot, wet trails on his skin, while his hands parted the front of Draco’s robes and worked the buttons of his shirt. Draco missed the fingers tangled in his hair, but he welcomed their touch on his skin and wanted to be rid of his clothing, so he didn’t complain.

Philippe got Draco’s robes off and his shirt open. His mouth with its hard, skilled lips moved down to caress his collarbones, then dipped to tongue a nipple. Draco leaned back, abandoning himself to the heat that coursed through his body and coalesced in his groin. He was ragingly hard, his pants already stretched tight over his jutting cock and wet with anticipation. He could feel a pulsing pleasure in his arse and his hole clenched at the thought of what was coming. If he weren’t enjoying what that mouth was doing to him so much, and the stroking of fingers over his skin as they stripped him, he would have pulled his wand, banished both their clothes, and climbed on Philippe’s cock that instant.

Instead, he fastened his own hands in Philippe’s thick, dark hair, pulled his mouth tighter to his throbbing nipple, and groaned, “Taste all of me!”

Philippe moved to capture the other nipple and give it the same treatment as the first, skimming his lips and tongue over Draco’s smooth chest. His fingers slipped down between them to open the Slytherin’s belt, and Draco knew from the sureness of his movements that he had done this a fair few times. Knuckles brushed his stomach, drawing a shudder of pleasure from him. Then his trousers were open and those deft fingers were sliding down into his pants.

Draco moaned softly and rolled his hips, spreading his thighs, inviting Philippe’s hands to go deeper. The Ravenclaw stroked down his cock, fingers brushing his groin as he did so, then he stopped. When he lifted his head, there was a question in his eyes.

“You shaved down there, too?”

Draco blinked at him, taken off guard by the change of mood. “What?”

“Isn’t that kind of strange? Having no hair on your body?” At Draco’s arrested look, he hurried to add, “It’s okay, Malfoy, I don’t have a problem with it. I just wasn’t expecting _no_ hair.”

Draco, sitting astride Ravenclaw’s lap with his legs spread wantonly, his robe gone and shirt half off, his cock straining to get out and weeping with hunger, suddenly decided that he did not want to fuck this man. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just eyed Philippe from behind a blank, innocent face, then gave him a half-smile.

“I bet you have lots of it.”

“Well… yeah.” Philippe shrugged. “My skin’s not pretty and white, like yours, so I don’t shave it.”

Rising to his feet with surprising grace, considering his awkward position, Draco stepped back off the other boy’s lap. “Show me.”

Philippe blushed furiously. “Huh?”

Draco dropped to a crouch in front of him and reached for his belt. “Show me.”

Grinning now, Philippe wrenched open his belt and popped the button on his flies with one twist of his hand. His cock was so hard that it practically peeled his trousers back by itself and thrust up through the elastic of his pants. Draco didn’t wait for the other boy to do the honors. He reached for that lovely, hard thing and pulled the pants away from it.

Sure enough, it rose out of a thick, dark, curling thatch of hair that was currently dewed with sweat and precum. Draco sighed his approval and sank forward to bury his nose in it. Philippe laughed in surprise, then moaned when Draco’s lips wrapped around his cock. In another moment, he had his hand fisted in Draco’s hair again and was thrusting upward, fucking his face, all thoughts of his pretty, white, hairless arse lost in appreciation of his willing mouth.

 

 

*** *** ***

 

“What have you done to your hair?”

Draco glanced up from his newspaper, startled by his father’s question. “Sir?”

They were seated in the breakfast parlor at Malfoy Manor. Draco had arrived home for the Christmas holidays last night, after a long train journey, and retired immediately to his room to rest. Now he was enjoying a mid-morning meal with his parents.

Lucius flicked his empty fork toward his son’s head, indicating the shining mop of white-blond hair that spilled over his shoulders and down his back. “Your hair. What have you done to it?”

Draco shrugged and, unconsciously, reached up to twist a lock of hair around his finger. The bangle on his wrist slid up to settle on his forearm, catching the light. Lucius frowned slightly at it.

“Just let it grow,” he replied with feigned innocence.

“It was short when you left here in September, and now its past your shoulders. Hair doesn’t grow that fast without magic.”

Draco’s eyes turned wary. He couldn’t read his father’s face or voice, which bothered him, since Lucius was usually an open book—a disdainful and disapproving book, but an open one. Not knowing what Lucius was thinking or how he’d irritated him this time made Draco distinctly nervous.

“What if I did use magic? Is that a problem?”

“No.” Lucius continued to frown at him, but there was a surprising lack of hostility in it. He looked more worried than anything. “Did you? The truth, please, Draco.”

Draco shifted in his chair, suddenly deeply uncomfortable. “No, I didn’t.”

“It just started growing?”

“Actually, most of it appeared overnight. I woke up one morning and it was down to my shoulders.”

The frown on Lucius’ face deepened. “I see.”

He set down his fork and turned to exchange a look with Narcissa. She sat to Draco’s right, a plate of fruit and toast in front of her, a cup of tea in her hand. She had stopped eating when Lucius first spoke, poised, listening, but her beautiful face did not betray her thoughts. At Lucius’ glance, she set down her cup and folded her hands in her lap.

“It’s time to tell him, Lucius.” Her voice was cool and calm. No emotion in it.

His father nodded. “It would seem so.”

“We knew it would happen.”

Lucius’ eyes traveled over Draco, giving his son the impression that he could see right through his clothing and his composure to all the most intimate changes beneath. He sighed. “I only wish it had taken another form.”

“As do I, but it is out of our control.” To Draco’s amazement, she reached out to touch Lucius’ arm in a consoling gesture. “We must accept the the reality and deal with it. We all must.”

Lucius patted her hand. “You are right, as always, my dear.”

Draco, looking from one to the other as if watching an Dueling demonstration, blurted out, “ _What_ are you on about?!”

Narcissa turned to him and offered a fractional smile that did not disturb the flawless serenity of her face. “Your father has something extremely important to tell you, Draco.” She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. “This is not a conversation to have in front of your mother, so I’ll give you some privacy. But please know, my darling boy, that I’m fully aware of your father’s unique family history and what it means for you. I’ve known since your birth that this was coming.” One graceful, white hand reached out to caress his overlong hair. “I wish that it had manifested itself in another way, one more easily accepted by all of us, but I love you, Draco, no matter what. And so does your father. Remember that.”

With that, she turned and wafted from the room. Draco watched her go with his mouth hanging open in surprise. When the door clicked shut behind her, he turned on his father and demanded, “Has everyone in this family gone insane?”

“Your mother just wants you to know that you have her full support.”

“With _what?_ ”

“This new,” Lucius took in Draco’s entire person with a sweep of his hand, “ _direction_ you’ve taken.”

Draco gaped at him. He knew it was undignified and not worthy of the Malfoy Heir but he couldn’t help himself. His father just watched him from beneath lowered, silver-white brows and made no comment on his unseemly behavior. Pulling his mouth closed with an effort, Draco fell back on the snark that had served him so well as a defense for so many years. “Are you saying that your… what was it she called it? Your _unique family history_ turned me into a poof?”

Lucius winced at that but did not react with the anger Draco had expected. He sighed and said, heavily, “No, I expect you were a poof to begin with.”

It was Draco’s turn to wince, having never expected to hear that word out of his father’s mouth, much less with no hostility behind it.

“But the Malfoy bloodline is undoubtedly responsible for the… the intensity, the _enthusiasm_ with which you’ve embraced it.”

Draco could not think of one, single thing to say in response to this bizarre statement, so he resorted to gaping again.

Lucius heaved another sigh, his eyes dwelling painfully on the bangle Draco wore. “I have some things to tell you, Draco. Things I ought to have told you some time ago, but I frankly did not know how.”

“Things that have to do with my hair?” Draco asked, blankly.

“Indirectly. Or… actually, quite directly, but perhaps not in the way you think…”

“Please, Father, just say it,” Draco urged, thoroughly unnerved by his distracted manner.

“Very well. But first, I need to make it clear that what’s manifesting in you is not a weakness or a character flaw. It is not a matter for blame. It is simply part of who you are, as my son and heir to the Malfoy bloodline.”

“I… all right.”

Lucius gave him a piercing look. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Draco?”

“You’re saying that you’ll love me and accept me as your son and heir, regardless of how this… this thing you haven’t told me about, affects me. That’s what Mother meant, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“So it _is_ about me being…” He almost said ‘poof’ again, but thought better of it, not wanting to deliberately antagonize or wound his father now. “…bent.”

“In a way.”

“We’re back to you not actually _saying_ anything.”

“My apologies.”

Was that a blush on Lucius’ cheeks? Did his father even have enough blood in him to produce a blush?

“As I said, this is difficult for me to talk about.”

Lucius straightened his spine and lifted his head at the arrogant angle Draco knew so well, but his face was still unusually somber, even kind, which looked as out of place on him as a blush.

“You know that the Malfoy bloodline is one of the last truly pure wizarding lines remaining. Even among the Sacred 28, impurities creep in, lesser—even non-human—blood is allowed to mingle with our own, magical inheritances are lost. This is inevitable, in many ways, though few among us will admit as much.”

“I’ve never heard you admit it before,” Draco murmured, eyes wide.

Lucius quirked a smile at him. “And you will not, again. But for this brief time, behind the closed doors of our Family Manor, I can be honest with my only son.”

Draco nodded in wonder. “Yes, sir.”

“So. The ancient magical families have allowed their bloodlines to be diluted and lost much of their heritage in the process. The Malfoy bloodline has undoubtedly suffered some dilution, as well. How could we not, over so many centuries? But the fact that we have stayed closer to pure, closer to our ancient magical roots than any others of our kind is proven by the fact that we have retained this one unique magical inheritance.”

Draco was fascinated. He didn’t want to be. He suspected that this would turn into another paean to Pureblood Privilege, and he had no patience with that shite anymore. But the look on his father’s face, the note in his voice, the openness with which he spoke all captivated his son. Draco could not remember a time when his father had treated him this way—as a trusted equal, a valued son, a Malfoy in all the best ways instead of a tribute to his sodding Family Name—and he didn’t want it to stop. Ever.

“What inheritance?” he asked, his voice no more than a breathless whisper.

“Passion. Magically enhanced, heightened, overriding, often ungovernable passion. It is there from birth, informing who we are, drawing others to us without conscious effort. Then, when we reach sexual maturity and encounter an appropriate trigger, it is awakened.”

Draco shivered, feeling the humming magic in his body spark. He had to clench his hands together in his lap to control the urge to slide them up under his sleeves and stroke his tingling, hungry skin. His cheeks heated, even as his cock stirred beneath his robes.

Bloody hell. He couldn’t behave this way in front of his father!

But Lucius was looking at him like he knew exactly what was happening to Draco’s body—knew, understood and even sympathized. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you?”

Draco had to lick his lips before he could force out an answer. “Yes, sir.”

“Magic on your skin. Reaching out to you, touching you, calling to your own magical essence.”

“Yes.” His belly twisted still more urgently. The flush on his cheeks darkened. “What was it?”

“Exactly what it felt like. Someone—let’s call him your trigger—looking at you with desire and awakening your own desires.”

“Him. You… know it was a ‘him’?” Draco ventured, nervously.

Lucius’ mouth twisted in a smirk that he visibly tried to control. “As you pointed out yourself, it’s not likely you’d welcome the advances of a woman.”

“He didn’t… I mean, there were no advances…”

“There certainly were.” Lucius’ gaze took in his appearance again, and the smirk deepened. “Very potent ones that you welcomed without reservation, from the look of it.”

“I still don’t understand.” Draco made a concerted effort to collect himself. He pulled himself up straight in the chair, folded his hands neatly, and forced his mind away from the treacherous heat in his pants.

“It’s quite simple. Malfoys are essentially passionate creatures.”

“Sexual. You mean, sexual creatures.”

“Yes, though it goes deeper than mere sex. We are born with this potent sexuality, but it remains dormant until it is triggered by the desire of another magical being. From that moment, we live in a state of heightened sexual interest and are driven to find and imprint ourselves on an appropriate partner.”

“Imprint?” Draco asked, his mind whirling with new ideas and images.

“This is another aspect of our inheritance. It means that you accept or give an imprint of your magic on another person.”

Draco opened and closed his mouth helplessly, thinking of how it felt to have that strange magic possessing him. He had wanted it. Desperately. Even though he had no clue who it belonged to or what it meant to do with him. Was that what it meant to imprint?

“And when you imprint, what happens then? Are you… are you forced to be with that person? Do they become your mate?”

“That’s entirely up to you. There’s nothing binding you to another person but your own wishes.”

“But if I let him… I mean…”

“Draco, listen to me.” Lucius waited until Draco lifted his eyes to meet the identical, grey ones fixed so intently on him. “You choose who to spend your life with—a bonded mate, a select few whose magic combines so perfectly with yours that you accept and enjoy their imprints for a time, a host of lovers who succumb to your charms—whatever feels right to you. I know it seems overwhelming when it first happens. The awakening is so powerful, so potent, that it sweeps you away. But you can’t let that happen. You must learn to govern yourself and your passions, or they will own you.”

“You felt this,” Draco murmured, trying to envision his father standing in the shower, caressing his own hair and hardening at the feel of water on his skin. He couldn’t. His brain wouldn’t go there. But clearly, Lucius had lived through this _awakening_ and had some perspective on it that could help his floundering son. “You felt this kind of… magical heat.”

Lucius smiled. “I still do.”

“It doesn’t go away?”

“No. It will ease a bit as you become accustomed to it, but the heightened sexual desire is part of you. It will never fade. And with time, you may learn to use it to your advantage. Your potent sexuality is a powerful weapon, Draco, even with your peculiar tendencies.”

Draco flushed, hearing the disdain in that remark even if his father hadn’t meant it that way. “How are my tendencies any more peculiar than yours? I inherited this from you, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but it manifests differently in each of us.”

“So it didn’t grow your hair out or make you want… what I want.”

Lucius’ brows arched up in surprise. “Certainly not. My tastes were always for women. And while the drive to imprint is irresistible, I always sought to imprint on others, rather than to take an imprint upon myself.”

“Did you? _Do_ you imprint others?”

Lucius paused, thinking, then answered cautiously, “At first I didn’t understand the urge and didn’t try to control it. When I took a woman, I imprinted myself on her without considering her feelings. After your mother, well, I learned restraint. Now I use that power very sparingly.”

“After Mother. Then she wasn’t your… your trigger.”

“I didn’t meet your mother ’til I was nineteen and long past sexual maturity. No, my trigger was a young woman at school—lovely and generous, but not ultimately important.”

Draco heard that word with a shiver of recognition. He remembered his own thought when he felt the strange magic on his skin. “Mine is important.”

“I gathered as much when I saw all of this.” Lucius’ expression turned faintly sour again, and he gestured at Draco. “Your hair, your clothes, your jewelry, the way you drape yourself on the furniture.”

Draco abruptly realized that he was languishing against the arm of his chair, body curved gracefully, fingers toying with the ends of his hair, and he bolted upright. “He’s doing this to me?”

“Your magic is doing it, responding to his imprint, answering his desires.”

Draco gave an _eep_ of distress and knotted his fingers together in his lap. “I’m changing for _him?_ ” Lucius nodded. “Am I turning into a woman for him?”

“I doubt it will go that far. I don’t think it’s even possible. But more to the point, this man, whoever he is, most likely doesn’t want a woman or he wouldn’t be looking at you the way he is. I suspect that while he prefers men, he likes your more, shall we say, feminine aspects, so your magic is enhancing them for him.” Giving Draco another of his oddly kind, worried looks, he asked, “Do you mind the changes?”

It only took Draco a moment to find the right answer. “No. I like them. I feel more… comfortable with myself. And…” He broke off, flushing.

“You can say it, son. Whatever it is. Remember, behind these doors, we speak the truth to each other.”

“I want him to find me,” Draco whispered. “I want him to see me as I am now, to want me, and to c- claim me.” His flush was now so bright that he thought his face might catch fire.

“You don’t know who he is?” Draco shook his head fiercely. “But you’ve been searching for him?”

Of course that’s what he’d been doing. It all made sense, now—the nights spent naked in an eager boy’s arms, kissing, touching, giving of himself but always holding something back until he found the one who lit his nerves and blood and heart on fire. The one he belonged to.

Lucius must have read the answer in Draco’s face. His voice was almost soft when he said, “I have little doubt that he will find you.”

“Is it wrong to want that?” Draco twisted his fingers together in distress, so off-balance and overwhelmed by the information he’d been given and by his father’s uncharacteristic kindness that he found himself asking questions and exposing feelings that were far more personal than he’d intended. He couldn’t stop himself. He needed his father’s guidance in a way he never had before.

“To want the one who awakened your desires and imprinted you with his magic? How could it be?”

“It’s not what you did.”

“You are not me, Draco. You need things I cannot understand and are willing to give of yourself in ways I never could. If this man is important to you…”

“He’s everything,” Draco whispered, feeling the truth of it vibrate through him like a perfect, musical note.

“…then you should find him and explore what you might mean to each other. I ask only one thing of you.”

“What’s that?”

“Be careful. Use your brain, not your passions, to make choices that will affect the rest of your life. And above all, learn control.”

“I’ll try.” That was the best he could do. He knew what his father was asking and didn’t want to disappoint him, but he also knew that he could not withhold any part of himself from the man who owned him so completely that he could even make his hair grow.

Lucius nodded, accepting his word without comment. Then he gave Draco a look that was perilously close to humorous and added, “Of course, you do still have to produce a Malfoy Heir. So I suggest you start looking for some accommodating pureblood witch who doesn’t mind sharing you with another man.”

Draco gave him an appalled look and nearly shouted, “Father!”

“I’m sorry, Draco,” and he did actually look sorry, which nearly gave Draco a heart attack, “but an heir is non-negotiable. And since no amount of undiluted Malfoy blood will allow you to bear a child, it will have to be a witch.”

Draco glared at his father in a way that, he suspected, looked faintly ridiculous coming from beneath his mane of hair and long lashes, but he didn’t care. He was pissed. And when Malfoys were pissed, they glared.

“I knew it was too good to last.”

 

 

*** *** ***

 

Draco walked out of the Great Hall, surrounded by Slytherins, and turned toward the dungeon stairs. He had not taken more than a handful of steps when he felt it. The magic. It stroked over his skin, touching him as intimately as if he were naked, instead of dressed in all the concealing layers of his Hogwarts uniform.

He halted and spun around to search for the source. Students were flooding out of the Hall, making for their dormitories at the close of the welcome back feast. He saw every size, shape and color of person, in every color of school tie, all chatting and laughing, but none paying any particular attention to him. Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, led by the inevitable threesome of Potter, Granger and Weasley.

Draco felt his guts tighten in longing. Potter. The one who’d taught him what he was, before he’d ever dreamed of magical inheritances or imprints or mysterious would-be lovers making his hair grow in the night. He’d wanted Harry Potter from the first instant of laying eyes on him but never dared to entertain the hope that he, Draco Malfoy, the palest, pointiest, snarkiest Slytherin of the bunch, could win the heart of the Boy Who Bloody Lived. He still didn’t dare to hope, and everything he’d learned over the hols only strengthened his determination to stay the fuck away from Potter.

There was a man out there who actually wanted him. Wanted him enough to claim his magic, his heart, his _body_ without even touching it. And Draco wanted him with the same all-consuming urgency. He had to find this man and form a conscious, physical bond to match the one their magic had formed. He didn’t have time to lust after a boy who didn’t like him, didn’t want him, and would never accept his love. It was as simple as that.

Except that it wasn’t. He still wanted Potter. He couldn’t help it. And telling himself that he belonged to another man didn’t turn off the lust in his body or the longing in his heart.

Well, his father had told him that he needed to learn control, and this was the perfect opportunity to practice it. Control. Restraint. Denial of the heat simmering in his loins and sparking under his skin.

With a wrench that seemed to echo down into his soul, Draco turned away from the crowd behind him and back toward the dungeons. He forced his feet to move and his mind to ignore the seductive magic that called to him. He couldn’t go searching for his mate, not with Potter there, watching him, confusing his impulses and overloading his senses. He had to get away, even if that meant walking out on The One.

Back in his dungeon room, Draco quickly grabbed a towel and some clean clothes, then headed for the shower. The bathroom was blessedly empty, so he could stand under the hot spray and stroke himself in answer to the magic pulsing through him.

It was stronger tonight, more urgent, harder to ignore. Draco knew this was a response to the man looking at him again, wanting him again, and this only drove him to greater heights of need. He braced a hand against the wall and leaned into the stream of water, his other hand pulling hard at his cock. It hurt. The need in him hurt. He thought briefly of Theo or Flint, of having a man put his cock up his arse and fill him for a few, ecstatic minutes, but then he shuddered and shied away from that image. They couldn’t help him. Not now. Not when he finally understood what he needed so desperately.

The orgasm gathered in his belly, made his arse clench, his muscles stiffen, then he spurted hot come over his pumping fist. He gasped in relief, but at the same time he felt tears running down his face beneath the shower spray. Propping his forehead against the wet tiles, he closed his eyes and wept.

This was the first time since it had all started that he felt his newly awakened sensuality to be a source of pain, rather than of pleasure. He suspected that it would not be the last.

 

The next morning when he awoke, all his muscles had hardened.

 

 

*** *** ***

 

Theo slouched into the room, looking sullen, with a pout on his lips that would once have driven Draco mad to kiss them. Now he just lifted a brow at his old friend, silently asking what his damage was. Theo draped himself artfully against the tall bedpost, and Draco recognized the deliberate attempt at seduction in the pose.

Theo was fit. No question. And he had a sulky, brooding, tortured-romantic allure that blended well with his lean body and boneless way of draping himself on solid objects. His dark hair dropped over his forehead in a single, rakish curl that made Draco’s guts clench with hunger and his cock press eagerly against his pants.

Draco sighed and looked away from the taller boy. The humming magic inside him would not let his body relax or his erection fade, but he knew by now that this did not signal a real interest. It was just his constant, low-level state of excitement and he didn’t have to succumb to it.

“What do you want, Theo?” he asked, as he sorted through the clothing in his trunk, looking for a shirt to suit his mood.

“Why are you changing? Do you have a date?”

“Yes.” He threw Theo a quick glance and saw his pout turn to a scowl.

“With who?”

“Does it matter?”

“Is it that Ravenclaw ponce I saw you with before the break?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, it’s not him.”

He found a shirt of soft, light grey silk, with a banded collar and a loose cut that would hang nicely on him. It wasn’t quite right, but it was better than his usual string of black, charcoal and stark white button-downs. At least it had a bit of style to it. Under Theo’s steaming eyes, he pulled off his jumper and pulled the shirt over his head.

Before he could get his arms into the sleeves, Theo was up against him, pressing his chest to Draco’s, reaching to pull the shirt off again. Draco didn’t fight him—it was undignified to squabble over a shirt and might end up tearing the only thing he had to wear tonight—but he gave Theo a warning look as he tossed the shirt onto the bed.

Theo ignored the look and the very real threat of Draco’s superior magic. Slipping his hands up Draco’s smooth chest, he wrapped a hand around his throat and bent down to capture his mouth. Draco swallowed, feeling the pressure of the hand against his adam’s apple and responding as Theo had known he would. He liked skin on his skin, a hint of power, of dominance. His cock came up hard, and he opened his mouth to accept the thrust of the other boy’s tongue.

It was hot. He couldn’t pretend otherwise. Theo was a damned good kisser and he knew enough about Draco’s body—what it liked and what it couldn’t resist—to get a reaction out of him. In the first week after his imprinting, Draco had let Theo drag him into an empty classroom on more than one occasion, to get his tongue down his throat and his hands in his pants. He’d stripped down for him, let him fuck his face and finger him. And he’d enjoyed it.

The truth was, he’d enjoyed it so much that he’d let it go too far. Let it happen too often. Now, when he understood what the magic had done to him, what his body was doing in response, he knew that Theo wasn’t the one. His father had implied that men like him could use their heightened sexuality any way they liked, including to seduce and toy with an endless supply of partners. That’s what Lucius had done, if Draco was reading between the lines correctly, but that’s not what Draco wanted. He was not his father—in more ways than he could count—and he had no intention of fucking his way through the wizard population of Britain just because he could.

Theo broke the kiss and dropped a hand to squeeze the sizable lump in Draco’s trousers. “You don’t need him, whoever he is.”

Draco stepped away from him and reached for his shirt. His cock was blazingly hard and his lips were swollen, but the look he gave Theo had no invitation in it.

“Don’t go!” Theo protested, trying to crowd up against him again and meeting Draco’s firm hand against his chest. “Stay here with me. I’ll give you what you need.”

“You can’t. I’m sorry, Theo, but we’re done. You need to accept that and stop embarrassing yourself.” Draco pulled on the shirt, slipped his arms into the sleeves, and tucked the long tail into his waistband. He contemplated the effect for a moment, then quickly rolled up the sleeves to show his smooth, white, muscular forearms and the platinum bangle on his left wrist. Finally, he combed his fingers through his long hair, shaking it into place, and smiled at his reflection. That would do nicely.

Theo watched all of this with a bitter sneer on his face. As Draco headed for the door, he called, harshly, “You’re nothing but a slag, Malfoy!”

“And you’re a bad loser, Theo. Good night.”

Draco left the Slytherin common room without a backward glance, making for the upper castle and the Astronomy Tower where his date waited. He strode through endless corridors and bounded up countless staircases, his movements lithe and easy, his face alight with pleasure. As he neared the tower, he began to whistle. He caught himself and laughed, then tossed the long, silver-white hair back off his shoulder with an unconsciously graceful hand.

He was beautiful. He knew this, without really stopping to think about it or to calculate what power it gave him. He simply was, and that was good. It drew people to him, allowed him to touch them, be touched by them in return, and always, always, always to search for The One—the man who had looked at him, wanted him, and awoken him. He needed to find that man like he needed to breathe. The search was everything, because _that man_ was everything. Draco knew this, just as he knew that he was beautiful and that his beauty would bring the man to him eventually.

It was a cold night, so his date had chosen the chamber below the viewing platform at the top of the tower for their tryst. It was protected from the elements and private, so long as no class was in session. Draco pushed open the door and looked around in appreciation. Candles stood on boxes, books and ledges, dotted about the room and filling it with light. A pile of what looked very much like wolf fur lay on the floor, making a thick pad, with a yellow and black blanket spread over it. Hufflepuff colors.

Draco looked up from this very promising start to find a pair of golden-brown eyes fixed hungrily on him. The boy was tall and broad through the shoulders, with a bright mop of brown curls and a shy smile that revealed a dimple in one cheek. He wore old blue jeans and a Rugby shirt—something Draco had only learned to recognize in recent weeks, when he started talking to boys because he liked them, rather than because they had the right blood status—and he’d taken off his shoes, so he was standing in a pair of woolly socks.

The look on the boy’s face was hopeful, a bit anxious, and utterly endearing. Draco smiled widely at him and stepped into the room, shedding his cloak as he did so. He was several inches shorter than the Hufflepuff and had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. It made him a little breathless.

“I’m glad you came, Malfoy,” the other boy said, lifting his hands to rest hesitantly on Draco’s shoulders.

“I told you I would,” Draco replied with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Yeah, but…”

“But what?”

“You’re… well, you’re Draco Malfoy.”

“Yes?”

“And I’m a Muggleborn Hufflepuff.”

“That didn’t stop you from asking me out.”

The boy grinned, and Draco felt his stomach twist with longing. “I sort of lost my mind when you walked by. I just blurted it out before I could stop myself. Kind of like… Do you remember that Veela girl from Beauxbatons? She made Ron Weasley ask her to the Yule Ball, without even looking at him.”

“I remember.” Draco’s smile widened, and when the boy stroked his hands down his arms, he stepped closer. “But I’m not a Veela.”

“Are you sure? It kind of felt like that.”

“I’m sure.” He tilted his chin up still further and shivered slightly when the boy’s fingers slid up and down his silk-clad arms. “But if you want to pretend that’s why you did it, I don’t mind.”

“I don’t want to pretend anything. I just want to kiss you. I want it so badly…” This last was breathed against Draco’s upturned lips.

“Tell me your name, first,” Draco whispered.

“Alec,” the boy said, a soft chuckle shaking him. Then he caught Draco behind the neck and pulled him into a kiss.

Full, firm lips came down hard on his, forcing them apart and grinding them into his teeth. He moaned softly but didn’t use his tongue or reach for the other boy with his hands. He simply stood there, open-mouthed, hungry, waiting. Alec backed off for a moment to look down into his eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, touching Draco’s face almost reverently. “I know we’re supposed to talk. Get to know each other. Have an actual _date._ But all I want to do is touch you… look at you… Let me see the rest of you. Please.”

Draco didn’t bother to give his permission. Alec’s fingers were already working at the buttons on his shirt, opening them one by one, then they brushed the soft fabric back from his collarbones. Draco let his head fall back, baring the line of his throat, and sighed his approval when Alec bent to kiss his shoulders. His lips were soft and hot and demanding, first ghosting over his skin, then fastening on it and sucking hard enough to bruise. His hands were large and callused, the fingers sure when it came to stripping away Draco’s clothing. The Slytherin was still lost in delight at what the Hufflepuff’s mouth was doing to his throat when he felt those strong hands cup his bare arse and realized that he was stark naked except for the trousers and pants pooled around his ankles.

He gave a breathless laugh that turned to a groan and toed off his shoes so he could step out of his spilled clothing. Alec continued to feast on his neck and fondle his cheeks as he guided him over to the palette he’d prepared. Draco moved into the middle of the wolf fur throw then, obedient to the pressure of the larger boy’s hands, bent and lifted his knees. The ease with which Alec bore his weight and lowered him to the fur took his breath away.

He gasped. Laughed in surprise. Moaned softly in encouragement when those powerful hands stroked up his thighs to find and caress his bollocks. He was ragingly hard, dangerously close to coming, and the other boy had not yet removed a single piece of his own clothing or moved his mouth below the level of Draco’s shoulders.

Alec knelt over his reclining body, one knee planted between his spread thighs, and took his mouth in a deep, plundering kiss. Draco strained up into it, clinging to Alec’s arms to lift himself away from the fur. No longer passive or accepting, he was all fierce hunger now, reaching for what he craved, demanding more and still more of the man pleasuring him.

When Alec moved to suck on his throat and trace his ear with his tongue, Draco groaned deep in his throat and panted, “Put your hands in my hair!”

Alec hummed his willingness, freeing one hand to stroke Draco’s hair and cradle his head.

“Nnngh!” Draco protested, his chest heaving as he sobbed in his raw, unbridled need. “Hard… Hold it _hard!_ ”

Alec’s fingers sank into the long, silvered strands and pressed against his scalp but did not fasten in his hair. Draco groaned again, this time in frustration. To show his partner what he wanted, he lifted both hands to Alec’s head and fastened his fingers tight in his golden-brown mane. Then he yanked.

The Hufflepuff reared up, startled by his sudden ferocity, and Draco saw the confusion in his face. With a deep, inward sigh of regret that he never allowed to reach the surface, he used the momentum of the other boy’s withdrawal to tip him over onto his back with Draco now sprawled on his chest. Disentangling his fingers from the thick mop of hair, he sat back on his heels to regard the still more confused Hufflepuff. A sweet, faintly sad smile tilted his lips. He reached for the other boy’s flies.

“Let me see the rest of _you_ ,” he purred.

 

Draco smiled to himself as he climbed into bed. He felt warm and relaxed, but still hyper aware of his own skin and, as always, noticeably aroused. He cast a muting spell to ensure his privacy, then he rolled onto his stomach and pressed his stiff prick into the silk sheet. A soft, luxurious groan rose in his throat, and he began to move his hips in a slow rhythm. Sticky fluid pumped onto the sheet and smeared his stomach. He groaned again and reached around to finger himself lightly as the night’s indulgences played in his head.

Alec was unbearably sweet. He had beautiful hands and an agile tongue. He had sucked Draco eagerly and expertly, proving that he was no novice at it, and when Draco sucked him… Merlin! His moans and curses had startled a handful of doxies out of their nest atop a beam in the ceiling. That had dampened the mood a bit, but only until Alec had turned his attention to Draco’s throat again. Something about those lips on his skin… sucking and nipping and leaving bruises in their wake…

He shuddered and picked up his pace, driving himself against the mattress. His cock hardened painfully and pumped yet more dampness onto the sheets. A vision of Alec bending over him, lips swollen and hungry, eyes burning, filled his head and he whined his longing into his pillow. At the last moment, when the heat and need in his body climbed to a fever pitch, he rolled abruptly onto his back, lifted his legs to reach beneath him, and took himself with his fingers as he fisted his cock furiously.

He came hard—harder than he had all night with Alec—heels digging into the mattress, back arching, thighs straining outward, head pressing back into the pillow. Come spurted over his hand and belly. He froze in this posture—a taut bow of desire and release—for a long minute, while the breath caught in his throat and tears slipped from the corners of his eyes. Then he suddenly collapsed, his muscles unstrung, his lungs gasping for air.

As he twisted onto his side and reached for his wand to clean himself up, Draco reflected that it was both a shame and a relief that his promises to himself made it impossible to enjoy a repeat engagement with Alec. He wanted that man—in his bed, in his body, sweating and pumping between his thighs. He ached for him. But the sad truth was that his fantasy of Alec had given him far more pleasure than the reality. Because Alec wasn’t the one.

He sighed and closed his eyes, burrowing down under the blankets.

If he was being honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he’d felt this way about many of the others. Philippe. Theo. Even Marcus Flint, in the immediate aftermath. He’d dreamed of them all in the safety of his own bed, come hard with their faces swimming before his eyes, knowing they weren’t the one and he’d never actually have to give himself to them.

Someday, he’d find the one who had made him what he was. Someday. Then he could do more than dream. He could have.

 _Hurry up, you git,_ he thought, as he drifted toward sleep, _find me already. Or do I have to do all the work?_

 

*** *** ***

 

“Hey, Malfoy!” Draco turned at the sound of that familiar voice to find Potter just a few paces behind him. “Hang on a minute!”

Draco halted and turned fully to face the Gryffindor, his face carefully neutral while his guts clenched with treacherous excitement. “Potter,” he said coolly.

He spotted Granger and Weasley hanging back, shooting him darkling looks, and wondered when they would pounce. They didn’t move, but Weasley was fondling his wand in a threatening manner and Granger looked as if she were going to bite through her own cheek.

Potter ignored them, all his attention riveted on Draco. “I want to talk to you.”

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, rucking up the sleeve of his robe slightly to expose the bangle on his left wrist. His posture said _So, talk_ as clearly as he could make it.

The movement caught Potter’s eye. He looked down at the gleam of silver on Draco’s arm, and an unnatural flush darkened his cheeks. “I noticed you wearing that in Potions. What is it?”

Summoning all the snark in his arsenal to mask his own trembling panic, Draco replied, “It’s called a _bracelet_ , Potter.”

The flush deepened, but instead of backing off, the idiot Gryffindor smiled at him. And what a smile! Draco thought his knees might buckle under the blaze of it! “I know that, you git. I mean, where did you get it? You never take it off, so I assume it’s important. Like… a gift?”

Draco caught the question in his tone and felt his innards roil still more powerfully. Did Potter actually care where Draco had gotten a piece of jewelry? Could he possibly be _jealous?_

No.

Draco jerked himself back into reality and slammed his mental walls back into place.

Potter was not jealous of the supposed giver because Potter didn’t care about him. Any suggestion to the contrary was just his mind playing evil tricks on him. And the sooner he got away from those flaming, green eyes, the better for all concerned.

Hoping for just a little help, even from the two people on this earth who were least likely to help him, Draco cast a swift look at Weasley and Granger. They were glaring daggers at him, but he ignored their burning hostility and raised an eyebrow to say, _Are you going to rescue the git, or what?_ They turned their backs.

What the fuck was that about?

“Who gave it to you, Malfoy?”

Forced to answer him, Draco wrenched his eyes up to meet Potter’s and said, “I bought it for myself.”

“Really?” Potter brightened at that. He held out his hand. “Can I see it?”

Draco frowned. “Why are you so interested in my jewelry, Potter?”

He shrugged. “I like it. I don’t know why, I just do.” He clasped Draco’s forearm, drawing it toward him, and he reached with his other hand to stroke a fingertip over the smooth metal. “There’s something about it…”

“That’s what I thought when I saw it in the shop,” Draco said before he could stop his unruly tongue.

“What’s it made of?” The question was utterly sincere, as was the avid curiosity in Potter’s face. Draco couldn’t quite make himself believe it, but he couldn’t resist it, either.

“Platinum.”

Potter whistled softly. He caught the perfect circle between his thumb and forefinger, hesitated, and glanced up at Draco with a hint of pleading in his eyes. “May I?”

Draco nodded. Potter slid the bangle carefully off his hand and held it up to study it.

“Is that Latin? What does it say?”

“Just a line from a poem.”

“What does it say, Malfoy?” he repeated, his eyes now locked to Draco’s a burning more fiercely than ever.

Draco swallowed nervously. “‘Without you I cannot live.’”

The flames in Potter’s eyes leapt gloriously. “Blimey. Sounds like something you’d put in an engagement ring.”

Draco shrugged and tore his eyes away from the other boy’s. “I just liked the bracelet.”

He felt Potter’s fingers on his hand, sliding the bangle back over it, then heard his voice murmur, “It looks perfect on you.”

Taking a moment to collect himself, to gather the shards of his emotional armor, Draco turned his eyes to Potter’s face once again and asked, his voice rough with strain, “Why this sudden desire to discuss my taste in jewelry?”

“It’s not sudden. I’ve been trying to get you alone since the start of term so I could talk to you.” He still held Draco’s forearm in one hand, but the other seemed to have a mind of its own. It drifted up toward Draco’s shoulder and the hair falling around it. “Be close to you.”

Draco tilted his head away from those reaching fingers. “Potter…”

That seemed to jerk the other boy out of his reverie. His head snapped around, taking in the open hallway, his friends standing a few yards away, the other students throwing curious glances at them, and his grip on Draco’s arm tightened.

“Not here. Come on.” Then he was dragging the Slytherin toward an open doorway and the unused classroom beyond. Glancing back over his shoulder, Potter called to the other Gryffindors, “I’ll catch up with you at dinner!”

Draco let himself be steered into the empty classroom, too paralyzed with shock to protest. Potter slammed the door and locked it with a spell, then stepped up close to Draco, crowding him back against the nearest wall. Draco stared up at him, dry-mouthed with mingled fear and excitement, silently praying that his knees wouldn’t give out and dump him on the floor at Potter’s feet.

Potter didn’t let go of his arm, but he altered his grip to cradle his wrist and the bangle circling it. He lifted the arm, his eyes glued to Draco’s to read his reaction, and rested it against his cheek. Then he turned his head just enough to bring his lips to Draco’s wrist and nuzzle gently at the bangle, pushing it out of the way. His lips brushed Draco’s skin, not quite kissing, not quite caressing, just touching it enough to send rivers of sensation flowing through the Slytherin’s body.

“Potter!” he gasped. His knees started to give, and he flattened himself against the wall for support.

“I’ve been dying to do that.”

“I don’t understand.”

Potter smiled, making his incredible eyes crinkle at the corners and almost forcing a groan of raw lust from Draco’s lips. “What’s not to understand? I’ve been watching you all term—stalking you, if you like—waiting for the chance to get you alone and kiss that perfect spot where your bracelet lies against your skin.” His gaze shifted to Draco’s shoulder, to the curtain of hair falling over it, and a kind of longing suffused his face. “There’s something else I’ve been dying to do.”

“What…”

Before Draco could get the question out, Potter’s fingers moved in his hair, separating a single thick, long, shining lock from all the others and lifted it to his face. As Draco watched, dumbfounded, he inhaled its scent, touched it to his cheek, then rubbed it against his lips.

“It smells like something… I don’t know.”

“Shampoo,” Draco rasped out, trying for sarcasm and missing by a mile.

“Not any shampoo I ever smelled. Blimey.” He ran the lock of hair across his lips again and murmured, “It’s even softer than it looks. How did you get it to grow so fast?”

“Magic.”

“It’s brilliant. Don’t ever cut it.”

Draco just stared at him in dazed confusion, unable to stop this or to save himself, while lust and longing sang in his veins and sapped his strength. He thought he might die, right here in this dusty old classroom, from the sheer intensity of his hunger for this boy. A hunger he had no right to feel and had promised himself he would not try to satisfy. As if he ever could. As if his body would ever have enough of Harry Potter. He was condemned to want forever, to burn and ache and weep forever. Because he knew, now that he was here at last, so close to everything he had ever wanted, that no one else would ever make him burn this way.

Then it came to him, in a blinding flash, and he almost laughed aloud at his own stupidity. His blind, stubborn, Crabbe-and-Goyle-level stupidity.

“Harry.”

The Gryffindor blinked, startled to hear his first name on Draco’s lips, and smiled beatifically. Draco felt as if the morning sun had just risen in the room. “What?”

“Did you see the Ravenclaw-Slytherin match?”

Potter laughed. “Seriously? I never miss a Quidditch match.” His smile heated and his hand slid into Draco’s hair to clasp his head. “You were brilliant. The best I’ve ever seen you play.”

“So, you… you were watching me,” Draco ventured.

“Never took my eyes off you. You flew like an angel.”

Something about the tone of his voice warned Draco what was coming, but he still gasped in surprise when he felt Potter’s lips on his. They were soft and beguiling, moving cautiously, as if afraid that he would pull away. A hesitant tongue stroked his lips, slid into his mouth, quested about it for a moment, then withdrew. Draco whimpered very softly in distress, then sighed when Potter sucked his lower lip into his mouth and grazed it with his teeth. Heat flowed through his body, stronger than anything he’d ever felt before, stronger even than when Harry’s lips had touched his wrist, and Draco knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d guessed right. This was right. _Harry_ was right.

Bracing a hand against Potter’s chest, Draco pushed him away and broke the kiss before it completely swamped his senses. Potter growled softly but did not force the issue.

 _“_ Harry…”

Potter growled again, in approval this time, and nipped at his swollen lip. “Do you know how many years I’ve waited to hear you same my name like that?”

“Please, Harry, this is important. At the match…”

“You’re still on about Quidditch? I told you that you were brilliant. Do you need me to say that you were better than me? That you would’ve caught that Snitch, even if I was playing?”

“No. Listen. I know this sounds strange—like I’m begging for attention or something—but that’s not it. I honestly need to know. At the match, when you were watching me…” He broke off to lick his lips. “Did you want me?”

“You have no idea.”

“Tell me.”

“I was mad for you. So hard I nearly came in my pants every time you pulled some reckless stunt on that broom. I wanted to pull you off of it, pull you down on my lap, make you ride my cock like it was a Nimbus 2001 and you were racing for the Snitch.” His hand tightened in a fistful of Draco’s hair, sending new rivers of heat through the Slytherin’s body. “Or better yet, I wanted to climb on the broom with you, peel all your clothes off, take you from behind while you flew like an angel… Merlin, Malfoy! It was torture watching you and wanting you that way!”

Draco flushed with pleasure and felt his cock—always ready and always embarrassingly eager when Harry was around—try to burst out of his pants. “And now, when you’re not watching me fly, do you still want me?”

Harry’s voice dropped down into a seductive murmur. “I want you every minute of every day.” He paused, then asked softly, “Was that the right answer?”

Draco swallowed and whispered, “Yes.”

“Can I kiss you again?”

“Yes.”

Strong hands fastened on his shoulders, pushing him up against the wall and shoving his robes down his arms. Draco tugged himself free of the clinging fabric and reached for the body crowding so close against his. Potter’s mouth came down hard on his. Draco met it eagerly, his lips parting in an invitation that the larger boy accepted without hesitation. Then Potter’s tongue was in his mouth, thrusting hard and halfway down his throat before he had a moment to react.

He moaned. He couldn’t help it and wouldn’t have, if he could. This was Harry Potter. Harry Potter pressed against him from shoulder to knees, shoving a magnificent erection into his belly. Harry Potter fumbling at his clothes, tearing open buttons, finding bare skin and dragging hot fingers across it. Harry Potter making him swallow a tongue that was as hard and demanding as any cock he’d ever tasted.

Potter heard him moan and backed off just far enough to say, “I want to touch you, Malfoy.”

“Yes,” was all Draco said. It was the only word he knew anymore.

Potter pushed his shirt aside to bare his chest. His eyes stroked Draco’s skin as fiercely as his hands, drawing a shudder and a low, throaty moan from him. Draco didn’t dare take the initiative. He could only press himself back against the wall, palms flattened to the stone, head tilted back to keep Potter’s face in sight, and wait for his next move. He was breathing hard, shivering in anticipation of the other boy’s touch, wondering what he saw and praying to every god he’d ever heard of that, whatever it was, he liked it.

A hand brushed his collarbone, then his chest. It paused over one nipple, rubbing gently, then traced the plane of his muscle to his sternum.

“Merlin, you’re beautiful,” Potter whispered, his voice nearly soundless.

Draco gave a little sob in answer and let his eyes close briefly in gratitude.

“No hair on your chest…” It was almost a question, bemused, perhaps intrigued. The questing hand slid down past the arch of his ribcage and nearly to his navel.

“No hair anywhere,” Draco breathed.

“You mean…” Glowing, green eyes lifted to his face for an agonizing moment, then dipped to his chest and down. Down. Down to where the flat plane of his belly dived into the waistband of his trousers. “None?”

“None,” Draco repeated. His breath was coming faster at the mere thought of where Potter’s mind had gone.

The Gryffindor hesitated for the tiniest instant, caught between curiosity and caution, then his hands moved toward the button of Draco’s flies. “I want to see.” His fingers were shaking. “Let me see.”

Draco couldn’t form words—not with Potter’s trembling fingers against the taut skin of his stomach. He could only moan softly and shift his hips away from the wall, closer to those eager hands.

They got the button open, slid the zipper down, pushed fabric aside to expose his pants, then hesitated again. Draco uttered another soft, plaintive moan and slipped his own fingertips into the top of his pants to push them down. Potter’s hands closed over his, halting him. Then Draco saw, through a seething haze of lust and disbelief, Potter drop to his knees in front of him.

Lips touched his stomach. A tongue flicked out to caress the same spot, then trace down to find his navel. Strong, Quidditch-callused fingers pushed behind the elastic of his pants and guided it down, carrying his enraged cock with it. Then the lips moved to taste the expanse of skin bared to them. Draco cried out in helpless longing, his hips thrusting out to find that tormenting mouth. The lips came to rest on a painfully sensitive spot just at the base of his cock. They hovered there, while Potter breathed him in, then fastened to him and began to suck very gently.

“Fuck!” Draco groaned, his head rolling against the wall. “Fuck, Potter…”

Potter’s tongue shot out and stroked his skin, sending shocks of pleasure through him. Draco felt dampness on his pants and smelled his own desire thick in the air. Potter smelled it too. His lips moved more strongly against Draco’s skin, sucking harder, then his warm, wet tongue edged into the elastic of his pants as if intent on finding the cock pinned inside. But at the last second, he pulled back and tilted his head up to gaze at Draco.

“Fuck, Malfoy. This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. How’d you do it?”

Draco opened his mouth to deliver a joking response, as he had to so many boys over the last months, but something in Potter’s face stopped him. Perhaps it was the utter delight he saw there. Perhaps it was the desire simmering in his deep, green eyes. Or perhaps, if he was being honest, it was nothing to do with Potter at all but simply his own gut-wrenching _need_ for Potter to be the one.

Whatever it was, the words were out of his mouth before he could think better of them. “I didn’t. You did.”

“Huh?” Confusion darkened the flaming lust in his face. He rose to his feet, but instead of pulling away, as Draco had feared, he stepped even closer. His chest touched Draco’s, and his hands clasped the Slytherin’s hips. “What do you mean.”

Draco swallowed nervously. “I… I can’t tell you. Not yet. But I’ll tell you everything, after.”

“After…” Potter started, then understanding dawned and the flames leapt up again. “After I fuck you.”

It wasn’t a question, so Draco didn’t bother to answer. He simply lifted his lips to Potter’s and kissed him with all the passion and pleading in him. Potter accepted his kiss, encouraged it, but pulled away before they lost all vestiges of control. His eyes bored into Draco, as if trying to read his mind, even as his hands held Draco’s hips hard to his and his cock dug into Draco’s bare loins.

“Tell me now,” he said, his voice thrumming with power.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Are you trying to trap me into something?”

“No.” Draco slid a hand around Harry’s neck and buried his fingers in his hair. In spite of his best efforts, tears stung his eyes and made them glitter like sunlight on ice. “It’s nothing bad, I swear. On my soul, Harry, I swear it.”

“Then why can’t you tell me before I shag you?”

The tears hung on his lashes. One slipped through to trail down his cheek. “Because I can’t wait that long!”

Harry stared at him in disbelief for the space of a heartbeat, then he laughed. “Neither can I!”

His hands tightened on Draco’s hips and spun him around. Draco found himself flattened against the wall, palms braced on the stone, cheek pressed into it. He sobbed his approval when he felt Potter strip his trousers and pants down to his thighs, then pull his hips closer. Cold, slick fingers slid between his cheeks and stroked down to his hole. One of them teased its way in, sending a jolt of pain and pleasure up Draco’s spine.

“Fuck!” he gasped, taken totally by surprise.

“You’re tight,” Harry remarked, as he twisted his finger gently. “How can you be so tight after you shagged half the boys in the school?”

“I didn’t! Ahh, _Harry!_ ” This last was dragged out of him when Harry eased a second finger into him.

“Don’t play games with me now, Malfoy. I know what you’ve been up to—the whole bloody school knows!—and it won’t make a difference to me. So just tell the truth.”

“I am. I haven’t,” Draco grunted, teeth clenched to hold in his cries as Harry worked to open him. It felt glorious, but it also frightened him. The Gryffindor must be as overheated as Draco was himself, because he was barely trying to be gentle.

“Haven’t what?” Potter demanded.

“Let anyone fuck me.”

“Are you _serious?_ What have you been waiting for?!”

“You.”

Harry froze—one hand clasping Draco’s neck to hold him against the wall, the other buried in his arse—for what felt like an eternity. Then, abruptly, he stepped back, muttering, “This isn’t right. Not like this.”

“Harry…!” Draco wailed, panic flooding in to replace his lust.

Potter caught his shoulders and turned him round, then cupped a hand behind his neck and tilted his head up. “Not from the back. I need to see your face while I fuck you.”

Draco’s breath hitched on a sob. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Harry looked wildly around and spotted a desk standing at the far end of the room. Looping an arm around Draco’s waist, he lifted his feet from the floor and carried him over to the desk.

As he set the smaller boy down on the scarred, wooden surface, he smiled into his startled eyes and said, “This’ll do nicely.”

A flick of Potter’s wand banished all Draco’s clothing below the waist. Potter’s hand on his shoulder pressed him flat on his back. Then Potter was between his knees, pulling his hips to the very edge of the desk, lifting and spreading his thighs, working a finger into his tight opening again.

Potter bent over him, just as Draco pushed himself up on his elbows, and their lips crashed together. This kiss was much rougher, more demanding that the others, and Draco welcomed it. He sensed Potter’s building excitement in it, his driving need to claim his own, and Draco responded with every nerve in his body. He was sobbing by the time Harry broke the kiss.

“This is going to hurt,” Harry whispered, as he pulled his hand from between Draco’s legs and reached for his own flies. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just do it.”

Harry had his cock out and nudging against Draco’s opening before the Slytherin had a chance to see it. He felt the heat, the wetness, the rigid hardness so eager to force its way into him, and uttered a panting cry.

“I’m big, and you’re so tight…”

“Do it. Fuck me, Harry _._ ”

“Hold onto me.” Draco obediently knotted his fists on Harry’s robe and held on for dear life. At the same time, Harry fastened a hand in Draco’s hair, forcing his head back.

“Oh, fuck…!” Draco gasped, as the first inch of Harry’s cock slid into him. “ _Fuck!_ ”

Pain blossomed in his arse, followed by a pleasure so intense it was almost harder to bear. Draco choked on a scream.

“Hold tight,” Harry urged.

Draco’s last rational thought was that, if he held on any tighter, he’d tear Harry’s robes off his body. Then Harry drove into him, and he forgot to how breathe.

It all happened with shocking swiftness. Harry seemed to find the perfect angle on his second or third stroke, and before the pain had even begun to ease, Draco felt the heat in his body build to a desperate pitch. He cried out. Scrabbled at Harry’s robe. Writhed beneath his moving body until he threatened to tear himself in half on Potter’s cock. He wanted to beg for mercy, for release, for Harry’s hand on him, stroking him to climax. But he had no control over any part of himself, even his voice, and all he could do was shudder and weep and pump hot come over his stomach while he came in great wracking waves. Then his mind pitched into blackness.

He had no idea how long it took Harry to come, buried deep inside him. It may have been a minute. It may have been a day. All that mattered was that, when he came back to himself, he found Harry Potter moving between his thighs, filling him, using him. It hurt like holy hell, but he never wanted it to stop. Then he felt Harry stiffen, his body clench, his cock jump, and suddenly Draco’s body was full of a marvelous slippery heat. The pain was gone.

Harry collapsed on top of him, crushing him into the desk, and buried his face in Draco’s hair. Draco wrapped his arms around Harry, feeling the tremors shake him, and held on until the other boy stirred. Harry groaned down deep in his chest and heaved himself up on one elbow to look down at his Slytherin lover.

“Did I hurt you?”

Draco squirmed slightly, feeling Harry’s cock—surprisingly large even when softened—pull at him. “Yes. It was brilliant.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure.”

Harry eased out of him and turned to sit on the desk beside him. Draco slid back to plant his arse firmly on the wood, then he folded his hands together and tucked them between his knees. He felt oddly self-conscious, sitting there in nothing but his loosened tie and an unbuttoned shirt, come pooling on the desk beneath him and slicking his thighs, but he didn’t want to be anywhere else. And he didn’t want to clean or dress himself until he knew what Harry intended to do next. So he crossed his ankles, tucked his bare thighs in tight around his locked hands, and turned wary eyes on the other boy.

Harry smiled crookedly at him and reached up to smooth the hair he’d knotted so fiercely in his fist just a moment before. “You need a comb.”

Draco tried on an answering smile for size. “Not when I’ve got a wand.”

“I was a little rough,” his fingers lingered in the long, smooth strands, “but I figured that the only reason to grow your hair so long was so some man could get a good hold on it while he fucks you.”

“Not ‘some man’,” Draco murmured. “You.”

“What I’d really like to do is to tie your head to the bedpost with it. Then you’d have to stay there and take whatever I give you.”

“Just show me the bedpost.”

Harry cocked his head in that curious, considering way of his and mused, “Would you really let me do something like that?”

“Of course. I’d enjoy it.”

Harry gazed at him for another moment, then, with only a slight hesitation, slid his hand into Draco’s hair to cradle his head—gently this time—and guided him into a kiss. It was soft and generous. Unbearably sweet. So good that it made Draco’s chest ache with unshed tears. He tilted his head and leaned into Harry’s lips, begging without words for anything he wanted to give. Anything. Pain or gentleness or hot, wild sex on an old desk. Anything, so long as he continued to look at Draco in that loving, longing way.

When Harry finally pulled away and began to stroke his hair, Draco reached up to catch his hand. Lacing his fingers through the other boy’s, he said, “I do have to tell you something.”

“Not something bad. You promised.”

“Not bad, but important. At least, it’s important for me. You can decide what it means for you.”

“Okay.” Harry looked around the musty, dusty classroom and wrinkled his nose. “But not here. Let’s go for a walk.”

“We’re supposed to be in class. If anyone sees us…”

“I don’t care. Come on.” He stood up and brandished his wand to sweep them both with a cleaning spell. Then he summoned Draco’s clothing from the far corners of the room. “Get dressed and let’s get out of here.”

Draco nodded and pulled on his pants.

 

* * *

 

 

They strolled along the shore of the lake, holding hands, while Draco talked. Neither of them found it odd to be touching this way in a public place, where the entire castle could see them. Nor did they think it strange when Harry abruptly folded himself down to sit on the dead grass and pulled Draco into his lap. The smaller boy settled easily into his embrace, looped his arms around Harry’s neck, and paused in his explanation so Harry could brush a kiss to his lips. Then he kept talking.

Harry listened with rapt attention, until Draco said, “That’s when my body started changing.”

The Gryffindor frowned in thought. “So my magic did all this to you? Made you change?”

“ _My_ magic did it because it thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry breathed.

Draco gave him a nervous look. “Was I wrong?”

“Wrong?!” Harry looked appalled. “No, you weren’t fucking _wrong!_ But, well, isn’t the whole thing kind of wrong?” Draco stiffened and drew back, his face blanching. Harry let out another explosive curse. “No, _fuck!_ I didn’t mean it that way. I think you’re perfect, Draco, and I never want to let you out of my arms. But what gives me the right to… to make you over the way I want you?”

“I do. I gave you the right when I accepted your imprint.”

“You didn’t even know what you were doing. How can you _accept my imprint_ without even knowing it? And what about me? _I_ didn’t know I was doing that to you, and I wouldn’t’ve done it, if I had!”

“You mean, you’re sorry?” The stunned, terrified hurt in his voice almost made Harry weep on the spot.

“Oh, no, no, no, please don’t look at me like that, Draco!” He caught a handful of Draco’s hair and pulled him into a ravenous kiss. Draco surrendered to it instantly, opening his mouth to Harry’s eager tongue and moaning softly when it plunged into him. They feasted on each other for long minutes. Draco clung to Harry’s neck, while Harry held him close and guided his head with a fist in his hair. By the time they drew apart, Draco was shifting on Harry’s lap, rubbing up against his huge erection, trying to bring his own into contact with the other boy’s body.

Harry pulled his head away, still clutching a fistful of silver-gilt strands, and stared at Draco’s swollen, reddened lips with half-lidded eyes. “I want to fuck you, right here.”

“Maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

“Maybe not.” Harry leaned in to nip at his lower lip, then swipe his tongue across it. “But it doesn’t stop me from wanting.”

“Harry,” Draco pressed his palm flat on the other boy’s chest and pushed him back, “tell me you aren’t sorry that you’re the one.”

“I’m not sorry. I could never be sorry. But I am uncomfortable with the idea that I can make you be someone different, just by wanting it.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works. I think I have to want it, too, or at least be willing. And Harry,” his hand caressed Harry’s cheek, “I’m willing to be _anything_ you want.” A sudden shadow crossed his face, and he added, hesitantly, “Except, well…”

“Except?” Harry nudged.

Draco cocked his head to one side and fixed pleading eyes on Harry. “Please don’t give me breasts!”

“ _What?!_ ” Harry demanded, appalled.

“I really don’t want them.”

“I would never! Draco, I would _never…_ ”

“I hope not.” He clutched at the fabric of his robes where it lay over his flat, hard pectorals, as if trying to protect them from a lustful whim. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that. But…”

“Of course you should! You’re a _person_ , not a _possession_ , and you have every right to say what you think!” Harry shuddered and pulled him into a crushing kiss. When his lips were free, he whispered, fiercely, “But you don’t have to worry. You’re more beautiful than any woman could ever be!”

Draco smiled mischievously at him and purred, “Some people would say that you’re already turning me into one, what with the hair and the jewelry and the clothes, not to mention the way I walk…”

“More like sashay,” Harry cut in, grinning.

Draco nodded acceptance, “Sashay and languish and giggle…”

“You do _not_ giggle!”

He uttered a laugh—low, throaty and musical, without a trace of a giggle in it—then went on, “I’ve had more than one boy admit that he wanted me because I was more female than male these days.”

“Then they’re idiots,” Harry declared flatly. “No one who actually looked at you could mistake you for a woman. Not to mention kissed you or touched you or felt that gorgeous cock of yours pressed against him!”

“Well, it hardly matters, now,” Draco pointed out.

“Too right. No one but me is ever going to touch you again, so who gives a fuck what they think?”

“Exactly.”

“It matters what I think, and I think you’re perfect.”

He kissed Draco soundly again, then gathered up his hands and kissed those, as well. He was working on his fingers, when he caught sight of the bangle on Draco’s left wrist. Abandoning his attempt to kiss each fingertip, he caught the simple circle of metal and stroked its smooth surface. Then he lifted Draco’s arm and pressed his lips to the spot where the bracelet lay against his inner wrist.

Draco watched him, smiling, petting his hair and waiting to hear what was passing through his mind.

“Promise me that this wasn’t a present from some other man?”

“It wasn’t. I bought it for myself because my magic told me you’d like it.” He smiled softy at the other boy’s bent head. “So, in a way, you bought it for me.”

“I wish I had,” Harry whispered, his lips still caressing Draco’s wrist. “I want to buy you all kinds of beautiful things.”

“Careful. Your presents do funny things to me.”

“Huh?” Harry looked up, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean? I’ve never bought you a present.”

“Well, your unintentional presents, then.” Draco nodded at the bangle and said, his voice trembling with laughter, “That one took away all my body hair.”

Harry shook his head in disbelief.

“The first time you looked at me, when you imprinted me, my hair started growing. Then the bangle took off all my body hair. Then… you remember the first night back from the Christmas hols?”

“Sure I do. I spent the whole feast staring at you, wondering how you’d gotten even more gorgeous in the couple of weeks you’d been gone.”

“I felt you looking. Mostly it was when we were leaving the Hall, and you came out with Granger and Weasley.”

“I almost ran after you. I wanted to talk to you, maybe touch you just once, but with them there and all your friends around, I didn’t dare.”

“Well, you did another number on me with your staring, and that night, my body changed. My muscles hardened up, like I’d been playing Quidditch really hard for weeks, or mountain climbing, or something.”

“You’ve changed in other ways, too. Your voice. The way you move and dress. Even your neck is different. Your adam’s apple is hardly visible anymore.”

“Turning me into a girl,” Draco said with a teasing smile.

Harry flushed. “I am not! But you are different.”

“I know. It’s been so gradual that I hardly noticed, except for those few, big things that happened when your magic touched me.”

“So you _are_ afraid of what I’ll do to you.”

“Well, there’s really no telling what my magic will do, if you start giving me presents.”

Harry planted another kiss on his wrist, then on his lips. “I’d like to find out. But in the meantime…” He slipped the bangle over Draco’s hand and pulled out his wand.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Making it official.”

He pointed his wand at the circle of platinum and fired off a spell that sparked purple and blue. When the magic died, he lifted the bangle and peered intently at it, reading the graceful script. Then let out a crow of triumph and held it out to Draco.

“Perfect! Here.”

It took the Slytherin a moment to figure out what Harry had done. He read the Latin phrase, frowning, then noticed more words cut into the metal in a decidedly messier script. They read, “with my love, Harry”.

Draco looked up at the Gryffindor, eyes wide and mouth dropping open. Harry grinned in triumph.

“You said it might as well have been a gift from me. Well, now it is. The bracelet, the poem, the symbolism of it, they’re mine. I’ll even pay for it, if that will make a difference.”

Draco shook his head, his eyes on the words again. “That doesn’t matter. Harry…”

“Hush. Put it on. You look naked without it.” Before Draco could move to obey, Harry snatched the bangle from him and demanded, “Give me your hand.”

His face now flushed a delicate pink and tears starting in his eyes, Draco held out his left hand to Harry. The Gryffindor took it, slipped the bangle over it, then lifted it to kiss both the platinum band and Draco’s skin together.

“Now you’re really mine,” Harry said, pulling him into a heartfelt kiss.

“You’re mad,” Draco breathed against his lips.

“I’m still going to buy you a present that’s actually from _me_ ,” Harry assured him.

Draco gave a slightly soggy laugh and buried his face in the curve of Harry’s neck. “On your head be it.”

 

The next morning when he awoke, nothing had changed.

 

 

*** *** ***

 

“Close your eyes, Potter.”

Harry looked at the stretch of empty air from which that voice issued and grinned. “Why? It’s not like I can see you with that ruddy cloak on, anyway.”

“Just do it.”

“Fine,” Harry huffed, shutting his eyes tightly. “What’s taking so long? I’m dying to give you your present!”

He sat on his bed in the Gryffindor tower,dressed in his most disreputable Muggle clothes and a pair of holey socks—mostly to irritate Malfoy—and facing the open door. He’d been perched there for some time, waiting for Malfoy to return from his mysterious errand. The gift he’d bought in Hogsmeade that morning was burning a hole in his pocket and his erection was seriously threatening the structural integrity of his trousers. He needed to get his hands and a lot of other things on the Slytherin’s fabulous body. Now.

“After I give you yours,” Malfoy retorted. Then, finally, “Okay, you can look.”

Harry opened his eyes and felt his jaw drop. “ _Bloody. Fucking. Hell._ ”

Malfoy smirked and let his lashes flutter down over his liquid-silver eyes. “Do you like it?”

“I… I…” All the blood had rushed straight to Harry’s groin, leaving his brain starved for oxygen and his speech center paralyzed. He was quite literally at a loss for words.

Malfoy stood in the open doorway, curved seductively against the jamb, his head cocked to one side to let his curtain of smooth, shining, silver-gilt hair fall about one shoulder and halfway down his back. His eyes were artfully made-up with charcoal-black shadow and eyeliner, black mascara darkening his crystalline lashes, and a touch of deep burgundy on the lids that matched his gleaming lipstick. He wore nothing but a pair of black jeans that Harry suspected had been spelled on, since they were far too tight to actually pull up over his arse. They rode low on his hips, the fly unbuttoned to expose a V of porcelain skin, the legs ending a few inches above his perfect ankles. And on his feet…

“ _Where_ did you get those shoes?” Harry breathed.

Draco grinned. “Pansy.”

The shoes in question were a truly shocking shade of pink, with pointed toes, four-inch stiletto heels, and bright red soles.

“She calls the her come-fuck-me shoes.”

“Good name.” Harry was half off the bed, ready to bound across the room and act on the promise of those incredible shoes, when Draco halted him with a raised hand. The platinum bangle glinted on his arm.

“Stay right there.”

“I want to _touch!_ ” Harry whined, while his trousers strained to hold the enormous thing raging inside them.

“You will. But what’s the point of shoes like this, if I don’t get to walk in them?”

“ _Holy fuck!_ ” Harry moaned, as Draco pushed himself away from the doorjamb and, pausing only to spell the door shut at his back, strutted across the room toward him.

There was no other word for the way he moved. Perfectly balanced, ankles rock-steady, elegantly muscled legs shifting inside those painted-on jeans, hips pushed forward and arse pulled in, taut and perfect. His ankles alone were enough to push Harry to the edge. He’d never known until that moment that ankles were, in fact, the most erotic part of the male body. At least, if they were Draco Malfoy’s ankles.

“How’d you learn to walk like that?” he whimpered, reaching out to catch Malfoy’s hips as he came into range.

“Innate skill.” Obedient to the pull of Harry’s hands, he stepped up close until his shins hit the mattress. He had to spread his legs to straddle Harry’s knees, but it only stretched his pants in new and interesting ways, dragging another moan from Harry.

“You’re not taking those shoes off all night.”

“Then you’ll have to spell the jeans off.”

“Not yet.” The Gryffindor bent forward to push his face into his open fly and brush his lips over that tantalizing V of skin. He licked a runnel of sweat from Draco’s belly, then dipped lower to tease the soft, sensitive spot just above the root of his cock. He heard Draco’s guttural purr in response and felt it vibrate in his body.

“Do you like your present?” Draco murmured to his rumpled mess of black hair.

Harry looked up at him, drinking in the sight of his perfectly painted face, and felt a fresh jolt of lust go through him. “I’ve always wanted to see you in make-up.”

Draco smiled, his lips looking fuller and softer with the lipstick darkening them. “I know.”

“How could you?”

“ _I_ wanted to see it, so it was a safe bet _you_ would.”

Harry shook his head, bemused. “I still can’t get used to that.”

“The two of us wanting the same things?”

“You wanting things _because_ I want them. It doesn’t seem right. What if you want something I don’t? Shouldn’t I have to give it to you?”

“You give me everything, Harry.”

The words were simple, the tone startlingly soft, the hand combing Harry’s hair gentle, but they went through Harry like an Unforgivable Curse. He gasped and fastened his arms around Draco’s thighs—the highest point he could reach in this position. Tears started in his eyes. He buried his face in the other boy’s stomach, letting his tears wet his skin, and uttered a moan of pure ecstasy.

“Don’t cry,” Draco whispered, his fingers sinking into the Gryffindor’s hair to cradle his head. “What did I say?”

“Nothing.” Harry sniffed and pulled slightly away. Glowing green eyes turned up to meet Draco’s concerned grey ones. “I’m just so happy it hurts.” Draco smiled and another shaft of pain went through Harry’s body. “Can I give you your present, now?”

“You haven’t unwrapped yours,” Draco protested.

“I’ll get to that.” He tightened his hold on the slender, steel-strong body in his arms and, with a deft twist of his own body, tumbled Draco down to land on his back on the mattress. Harry instantly swung a leg over him and sat astride his sprawled legs. “But it’s definitely time.”

“If you say so.”

Chuckling through the last remnants of his tears, Harry slid off the bed and to his feet. Then he dropped to a crouch on the floor. One hand went into his pocket. The other caught Draco’s right foot in its preposterous come-fuck-me shoe. He propped the wicked heel on his own thigh, then looped a glinting line of silver about the ankle, fastening it with a touch of magic.

His hands lingered on that sinfully beautiful ankle, caressing the sharp bone, slipping a fingertip into the shoe to stroke the arch of his foot, then sliding up his calf. Draco moaned softly—an incredible erotic sound down low in his throat—and said, “What is it? You’re killing me, Harry!”

Harry just laughed and stooped to follow the path of his fingers with his lips.

“Oh, fuck…” Draco groaned.

“I’m getting to that.” With a final caress of his lips to the spot where gleaming emerald stones rested against perfect alabaster skin, Harry set Draco’s foot on the floor again and stood. Holding out a hand, he said, “All right, have a look.”

Draco caught his hand and used it to pull himself upright. Then he straightened his knee, lifting his foot into view. Just as Harry’s had when Draco first revealed himself, his jaw dropped and he gazed in stupid amazement at the jewelry gracing his ankle.

It was a delicate chain made of platinum, so fine that it would have disappeared against his skin if it weren’t so bright, and it fit perfectly around the narrowest, most graceful part of his leg. On the outside, resting just below his ankle bone, was a solid bar of filigreed metal with five tiny, perfect emeralds set in it. It was simple, elegant, a thing of beauty that only enhanced the beauty of the man wearing it.

Draco folded his leg on the mattress, pulling his foot up by his hip and twisting to get a better look. His finger touched the row of emeralds almost reverently.

“Well?” Harry asked.

Draco’s eyes flew up to his, and to his amazement, they were bright with tears. “Harry,” was all he said.

“I knew it was meant for you the instant I saw it.”

“How?”

A satisfied grin spread over Harry’s face. “Because I knew I had to see it on you.”

“I told you.” Holding up his hands toward the man standing over him, Draco said, “Come fuck me, Harry.”

“We can’t deny the shoes,” Harry said, bending down to brace his hands on the mattress and bear Draco back onto it.

Draco caught his head between his hands and pulled him into a fierce, hungry kiss. At the first touch, they were desperate for each other, mouths straining together, hips grinding, hands grabbing with no gentleness in them. When Harry pulled out of the kiss to reach for his wand, Draco caught his wrist and dragged it back.

“Strip me with your hands, Harry. No magic.”

“I’m not taking those shoes off.”

“Please. Let me feel them.”

Harry wasn’t about to argue with that request. He stooped to bring his mouth to Draco’s again, plundering him with his tongue, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and tasting lipstick on it as he bit. At the same time, he plunged a hand into the back of his jeans, working his way beneath the taut fabric to find and clasp one firm buttock. Draco moaned into his mouth, twisting his hips to give Harry room and to press his swollen crotch against the taller boy’s belly.

Harry pulled his hand free and moved it between them, working into the open fly now, humming his hunger into Draco’s mouth. He found smooth skin, the crease of Draco’s thigh, the peculiar softness of his bollocks caught up tight against his body, but no cock.

“Where is it?” he mumbled, breaking the kiss and moving his lips to the underside of Draco’s jaw.

Draco tried to laugh but it turned into a groan. “Those jeans are really tight.”

“You’re not telling me you magicked your prick away.”

“Just get the fucking jeans off, already!”

“Right.”

Abandoning his assault on Draco’s throat, Harry got to his knees and turned his full attention on the jeans. When he took a proper look, he could see that Draco’s cock was pinned to his thigh. It was swollen and hard, standing out like a Beater’s bat, and the denim at its tip was wet. But it couldn’t tear free of the heavy fabric and Harry couldn’t reach it where it was.

Harry bent to fasten his mouth to the rigid mound, breathing to warm it through the jeans, then licked the wet patch. Draco threw his head back and cried out in desperation, “Harry, _please!_ ”

“I love these jeans.”

“I hate them.” The Slytherin was panting now, the air catching at his throat and sobbing in his lungs. “I need them _off!_ ”

Harry took pity on him and pushed both hands into the loose waistband to peel the denim down over Draco’s slim, pointy hips. He had to tug hard, gentleness and seduction forgotten in his urgency to free the other boy from his fabric prison, but Draco seemed to find his rough treatment plenty erotic. He twisted against the coverlet, hips turning one way and the other, legs moving as if he longed to spread them wide and throw them around his lover’s hips but couldn’t when they were bound up in this way. His head was pressed back into the mattress, neck arched, eyes closed, mouth with its smeared lipstick opened on a hungry, guttural cry.

Harry took one look at him and nearly came in his pants. Then he ruthlessly forced his attention away from Draco’s face to his body. This did not help. Just as his eyes dropped to what his hands were doing, he succeeded in peeling the jeans down to Draco’s thighs, freeing his cock. Enraged as it was, it nearly leapt out of his trousers, leaving a smear of hungry fluid on his thigh. Forgetting what he was supposed to be doing, Harry wrapped a hand around it and bent to lap at it with his tongue.

Draco moaned and clutched at Harry’s head, pulling his hair, while his hips lifted to thrust himself into the tormenting mouth. “Nnngh! Harry!” he gasped.

“Mmm,” was Harry’s only answer, as he took Draco’s cock in his mouth.

“Not yet! Don’t f-finish me yet… Oh, _fuck!_ ”

Pulling back a little, he retorted, “Then stop fucking my face.”

“I can’t… Take them off, Harry, _please!_ Touch all of me. _Take_ all of me!”

Understanding the urgency of that request, Harry left off his attack on Draco’s cock and returned to the problem of his jeans. He got them down to his knees, then to his calves, but when faced with the necessity of taking off those incredible come-fuck-me shoes, he couldn’t do it. Instead, he reached for his wand and banished the jeans to a far corner of the room. Draco sobbed his approval, letting his legs fall open in wanton surrender. Harry sat back on his heels to admire the result of his efforts and thought his heart and his pants might burst at the same moment. He had never seen anything so beautiful, or so utterly hot, in his entire life.

Squirming against the blanket, as if its touch was painfully exciting, Draco pulled one foot up onto the mattress and dug his stiletto heel into it, then reached down to caress his cock where it lay on his belly. Moisture squeezed from the tip, making a pale, sticky puddle on his skin. His long fingers, looking unbelievably delicate and graceful with the bracelet dangling from his wrist, traced up and down the length of his shaft, barely touching but sending visible sparks of pleasure through him.

Harry growled and bent to follow the path of those fingers with his tongue. Draco gasped and arched up toward him. Harry lapped at the head of his cock, tasting the saltiness of his excitement, then took it into his mouth. At the same time, his fingers stroked up Draco’s thighs and over his balls. The smoothness of his skin with no hair on it was enflaming for Harry. Every touch was intensified, every sensation magnified to the threshold of pain. If it was this electric for Harry, he couldn’t imagine how it felt to Draco, who’s every nerve ending was exposed to Harry’s touch.

“How do you stand it?” he murmured, freeing his mouth for a moment. “The way it feels?”

Draco didn’t need to ask what he meant. He combed his fingers through Harry’s mop of hair without opening his eyes to look, and he sighed luxuriously. “It feels fantastic. It’s like… I can’t hide anything from you.”

“Mmm,” Harry murmured in satisfaction. He pressed a kiss to the base of Draco’s cock—that lovely spot that he would never have seen, if it were hidden in hair—then he whispered roughly, “I need to fuck you hard.”

“Yes,” Draco breathed.

“I mean _hard._ So hard you beg me to stop.”

“I’ll beg, if you want, but don’t stop.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Harry chuckled.

He abruptly slid off the bed to stand between Draco’s spread legs. Grabbing the smaller boy by his slender hips, he dragged his body to the edge of the mattress. Then he pushed Draco’s knees up and settled his outrageously-shod feet against his own shoulders. Draco gave a sobbing laugh, grey eyes gleaming through slitted lids.

Harry worked a finger between his cheeks, fumbling for his hole, and he gasped, “No! No prep! Just do it!”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Harry protested. He had his flies open and his cock in his hand. It was bigger and harder than he’d ever seen it, leaking precum, straining toward Draco as if it knew precisely where it belonged.

“You won’t… Harry, you _can’t!_ ”

“Oh, bloody hell!” Harry groaned, falling forward to land on one outstretched hand. Bent over Draco, he could see tears in the other boy’s eyes. “Blood fucking _hell!_ ”

He braced his legs wide and drove into Draco’s body in one tremendous thrust. Draco shouted something that was caught between welcome and agony, but his body left Harry in doubt as to what he wanted. His knees folded and spread, his hips rolled up, and his head lifted to show Harry his swollen, flushed, tear-streaked face.

“Fuck me, Harry,” he whispered without opening his eyes. “ _Hard_.”

With a gasp and a laugh, Harry obeyed.

He had never used another human being this way—never wanted to, until he had Draco Malfoy naked under him—and never quite believed he had this much power in him. But Draco pushed him to the edge of sanity and well beyond the limit of his control. Harry wanted to mark him, to claim him, to fuck him so hard and so deeply that he imprinted his name on his heart forever. He knew without asking that Draco wanted the same thing and would welcome whatever Harry gave him, no matter how much it hurt. He knew that he was bruising Draco with his hips and his hands, stretching him beyond the point of pain with his cock, cutting him with his teeth when he bent to fasten his mouth on that tempting, white throat. But he also knew that every bruise, every cut, every jolt of pain only gave his lover more pleasure. He couldn’t explain how he knew, but he knew.

Harry was slick with sweat, breathing hard, straining with everything in him to claim his love, when he felt the orgasm gathering, hot and heavy, in his belly. He groaned and pushed himself hard into Draco’s body, falling onto his chest as the waves of release pulsed through him. Draco crooned something that he couldn’t hear for the rush of blood in his ears, and wrapped his long legs in their preposterous shoes about his waist. Harry groaned again, shuddering helplessly, the aftershocks never seeming to end. When he staggered back to something like sanity, he found himself still buried in Draco’s arse, but all friction was gone. They were melted beautifully together, sliding on his expended lust, wrapped around each other so completely that it was hard to tell which limbs were whose.

With yet another groan, this one coming from somewhere at the bottom of his soul, Harry kissed the damp neck where his face was nestled and pushed himself up on his elbows. Draco lay sprawled beneath him, hair tangled and tumbled across the Gryffindor red blanket like a mantle of spun ice, smiling up at Harry with swollen red lips, the remains of his lipstick smeared fetchingly across his cheek.

Harry grinned down at him and planted a kiss on his mouth. “Was that hard enough?”

“It’ll do for a start,” Draco replied, a twinkle in his eyes.

Harry cocked his head, wondering what that twinkle and that smile and that teasing note in his voice meant. Then he abruptly realized that the hard, hot, wet thing pressed against his t-shirt was Draco’s erection. His unserviced, unsatisfied erection.

“Fuck!” he cried, lurching up and away from his startled lover.

“What…?”

Harry didn’t bother to answer. He simply grabbed his wand, banished his own clothes, and stretched his now-naked body out atop the other boy. Planting a much softer, more lingering kiss on Draco’s lips than any he’d managed in the heat of his need, he slid a hand down to grasp his cock. It was painfully hard, weeping with need, and it practically leapt into Harry’s hand.

Stooping to bring his lips close to Draco’s again, Harry murmured, “Do you want me to suck it?”

“No.” Draco slid his fingers into Harry’s unruly mop of dark hair, combing it back from his face to expose his lightning bolt scar. “Stay in me.”

“I want to make you come.”

“Do it like this.” Draco hitched one leg up higher, rolling his hip out and giving Harry room to stroke his cock without pulling out of his arse, then he slipped a hand behind the Gryffindor’s neck and drew him into a kiss.

It was, in its way, as perfect as the furious pounding that came before it. His immediate lust burned out, Harry could afford to be gentle and patient. He played with Draco’s lips, nipping and sucking and slipping his tongue between them to search his mouth. At the same time, he pressed up with his hips, keeping his softening cock deeply buried and moving languorously against Draco’s body, rolling and grinding, until he began to harden again. And alway his hand stroked, teased, fingered Draco’s slit to capture the moisture squeezing from it and use it to slick up the shaft when he started to pump.

Draco abandoned himself to it. He moaned into Harry’s mouth, reached for him with his tongue, opened himself ever wider to his searching hand, and worked himself against Harry’s cock, hips and loins with an unguarded, lascivious hunger that took Harry’s breath away.

Harry would have sworn that Draco was on the brink of climax when he first took him in hand, but the Slytherin was clearly in no hurry and let the ecstasy build in him with agonizing slowness. By the time he was panting, his hips beginning to jerk and his cock beginning to thrust into Harry’s hand with real urgency, Harry was hard and aching again. He began to stroke in and out of Draco’s arse more purposefully, while his hand worked Draco’s cock. Their lips rested together, parted, not quite meeting. Harry felt the first tremors in Draco’s body and heard him give a high, insistent whine.

 _Yes_ , Harry mouthed against his lips and pumped faster.

Draco made that desperate, hungry whine again and pushed his tongue into Harry’s mouth. “Fuck me, Harry,” he whispered into Harry’s mouth. “Fuck… f-nnngh!”

Harry felt the orgasm take Draco a split second before hot come pumped over his hand and across their bellies. Only a breath behind him, Harry heaved himself up against Draco’s arse and cried out in relief as he emptied himself into his lover. Draco rode him, clung to him, fastened both hands in his hair and pulled their mouths fiercely together as still more spasms shook him. It seemed as though his climax would never end. Then, finally, he went limp and fell back against the bed with a whimper that almost made Harry burst into tears.

“Oh, my dragon,” he whispered.

Draco’s eyes fluttered open. They were glazed with sated lust and bright with tears, looking brighter and more like liquid mercury than ever with the eyeliner and mascara smudged all around them. He smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t ever thank me for loving you,” Harry said earnestly.

“Thank you for making me _feel_ it.”

“Oh, my dragon,” he said again, sinking into Draco’s lips with a sigh of pure joy.

When they had explored each other for long minutes, lips and tongues and hands and feet tangling together, Harry rolled fully onto the bed and pulled Draco into his arms. With his treasure settled close against him, Harry could relax. He could touch and taste, caress without urgency, toy with the gleaming metal around Draco’s wrist and gaze down at the delicate chain that circled his ankle. The ridiculously sexy pink shoes still adorned his feet, reminding Harry how they’d ended up in this state. He chuckled and lifted Draco’s hand to press a kiss to his wrist, just where the bangle touched it.

“You’ll have to tell Pansy that the shoes work.”

“Oh, she knows,” Draco said in a voice that had gone deep and smokey with expended lust. “Can I take them off, now that we’ve proven how potent they are?”

“Not a chance. You’re wearing them all night.”

“Am I?” Silver-grey eyes gleamed wickedly at him from beneath unnaturally dark lashes. “Think your heart can take it?”

“I don’t know.” Harry pressed Draco onto his back and leaned over him, nudging his hardening cock against the smaller boy’s thigh. “Think your arse can take it?”

“No question there.” Draco flung one leg up and around Harry’s hips, digging the sharp heel into his naked bum cheek.

“You really are a slut.”

“Of course. That’s how you want me, isn’t it?”

Harry’s face darkened, his smile turning to a pout and his brows drawing together in a frown. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” Draco stroked his hair, teased his lower lip with his thumb, offered him a beguiling smile. “That’s how I got to be this way. There’s no point in pretending otherwise.”

“I don’t like it.” His pout deepened. “I don’t think it’s fair. You shouldn’t have to change for me, when I don’t change for you.”

“Why, in the name of Merlin’s saggy left tit, would I want you to change?”

“I don’t know, but what if you do? Will I wake up one morning with, say, a full beard?”

Draco pulled a grimace. “Eurgh.”

“That was just an example. You know what I mean.”

“I do. And you’re sweet. But the whole point of this… this _thing_ I am, is that I let you imprint on me because you’re already perfect.”

“Nobody’s perfect, Draco.”

“Perfect _for me_ , then. Everything I want. Please, Harry,” Draco stroked a hand through his hair, then fastened his fingers around a generous handful of it, “don’t spoil it by worrying about things that don’t matter.”

“Your happiness matters to me. A lot. More than my own.”

“Then be happy that I took the imprint of the man I love, not some tosser who would turn me into a lisping twat with footlong nails!”

“Do you really love me, Draco? _Do you?_ I mean, for real, without your Malfoy family heritage forcing you to give me whatever I want?”

“Of course I do.” Draco’s hand combed through his hair again, pushing back the tumbled curls from his face. “I loved you from the first moment I saw you in Madam Malkin’s shop when we were eleven. I wanted you from the first time I knew what that burning in my belly meant— _before_ , really. And I hoped it was you who imprinted me from the first instant I understood what imprinting even was. I didn’t think it was possible, because nothing works out that well for me. I’m a Malfoy, and we’re rather hateful as a rule, so I just assumed that I’d never get what I really wanted. I looked for the man who’d imprinted me, always hoping it would turn out to be you, but never believing it would. The day you looked at me…”

His voice faded. His hand fell still. His eyes—so clear, so beautiful, so full of unadulterated love—gazed up at Harry and did not waver.

“The day I looked at you and saw what I’d done to you…”

“It isn’t just what you did, Harry. It’s what I wanted you to do. You have to believe that. My magic would not have chosen you… _I_ would not have chosen you, if I didn’t want to be… this.”

“So… if I decided I wanted you with breasts…”

Draco unconsciously pressed his hands to his chest in a familiar, defensive gesture that made Harry smile. “If you wanted it… I would probably discover that I wanted it, too,” he ventured, but his smile was gone and his eyes wary.

“Relax, Dragon. I’m not going to wish breasts on you. I am going to clean that make-up off your face…” He fumbled for his wand, buried in the rumpled bedclothes, and cast a _Scourgify_ charm with it. The smeared and streaked make-up disappeared from Draco’s face, along with the runnels of come and sweat on their bodies.

“Then I’m going to kiss you…” He followed through on this, ducking his head to caress Draco’s lips with his own.

“And I’m going to fuck you again before I come just from looking at your gorgeous face…”

Good as his word, Harry rolled atop Draco and between his thighs.

 

When he was finished, Harry gathered Draco close again and petted his hair in a tender, protective gesture. Nuzzling his lips into Draco’s ear, he whispered, “If you ever need me to change, I will. Just tell me what you want, Dragon. I’ll do anything.”

“Let me take the shoes off?” Draco murmured, smiling to show that he didn’t mean it.

“Anything but that.”

 

The next morning when he awoke, he was in Harry Potter’s bed, wearing Pansy’s baby-pink come-fuck-me shoes. And it was perfect.

 

**_Finis_ **


End file.
